


A Collection of Marvel One-Shots

by sighodinson



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Marvel Universe, Other, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-02-05 07:33:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 54,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12789798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sighodinson/pseuds/sighodinson
Summary: General reader inserts for fluff and angst one-shots. There's a series or two in there somewhere.





	1. Lonely Hearts and Sad Bars [Avengers]

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoy! please leave feedback, that shit is gucci

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bartender’s observations of the Avengers.

The margaritas are good. No one ever orders them. Left as the remnants of pure ecstasy, dull flavor, and even duller eyes opting instead for the simple commodity of cold beer.

It’s an old bar. Frequented by men who prefer the consistent taste of their bland beers during the day, tempered whiskey at night, the wine that burns your throat in the early hours of the morning.

“Gin and tonic,” The same order over and over again. And the same movements to make them. The same bland, emotionless smile while serving the cold drink, fingers burning with silent grief.

The limes under the bar are wrinkled, having lost all their flavor. Dusty too, having lost all life. Almost an exact mirror of the bar. 

You remember, though. The nights filled with lively music, bright lights, and even brighter laughter. The crooning voice of Prancing Pietro had filled every corner of the bar, flowing over every square inch of the tiled floor, sneaking its way into every customers’ heart, providing them a momentary reprieve from whatever horrors that they’d come in to escape.

You tended to call him Peter. His name did sound close to it after all, and he didn’t seem to mind.

He sure as hell was quick on his feet, energetic.

He was your favorite customer.

He always sat in the second seat from the left of the bar. He always had a bright smile gracing his features. He always ordered a Kvas.  God rest his soul.

Next to him, in the first seat, there’s this woman named Wanda. She’s beautiful and calm. Someone’s gotta keep Peter on Earth, don’t they?

You conclude that the two of them are siblings, often arguing in a lost language, their voices hushed and words like machine-gun fire.

She usually wins, though. That triumphant smile tugging crookedly at her red painted lips as she orders her first drink of the night. The strongest that you have.

There’s another man to her left. His name’s Clint. He doesn’t drink. He only watches over the rest of the group like a hawk trying to find a mark. He’s fun to hold short conversations with, making cheesy jokes and laughing just for the fun of it.

But then, when he’s left alone, he always has this dazed look in his eye, almost like he’s pondering his own mortality. How he’s just a man, a small speck of dust in this entire universe.

He feels alone despite the group around him.

You offer him a smile. It’s the least you could do.

He returns it.

Then there’s James. He’s quiet, fingers always wrapped around the metal dog tags hanging from his neck, eyes often wide, scanning the shelves behind you as one would a battlefield, trying to assess a threat that didn’t exist.

He’d often jump when the bottom of the full beer glass made contact with the bar, breaths quickening. He’ll often send Peter glares, along with everyone else who seems to be enjoying his music. They don’t notice. And with his shrinking figure in the soft glow of the light above, he doesn’t notice the loud noises anymore, his memories drowning out all other sounds besides those of screams begging for mercy.

You wonder if his mind ever stays silent. You don’t ask.

He sits the fourth seat at the bar.

And next to him, in the fifth seat, there’s Steve. The epitome of a good man, always bringing life in the areas of the bar that seemed like they needed it. He always knew what to say, that man. It was almost as if he’d been in the same place before, seeing yet unable do anything as everything fell apart.

You figure that’s why he sits next to James.

He always has a smile too. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

Then there’s Bruce. He always has this calm aura of pure welcome seeping from him. You’d always want to talk to him. He’d rarely reply, fingers always moving, as if trying to fix something that didn’t need to be fixed. You never questioned it, instead choosing to invest in the small, occasional smiles that he did offer.

Bashful Bruce.

It does have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

He always sits in the eight seat, far off from the rest of those who frequented the bar. He likes his whiskey. He drinks almost enough rum for two men, glass after glass, cough after cough.

Thor’s there next to him, in the seventh seat, patting the coughing man’s back, his boisterous laughter punctuated by Bruce’s wheezes.

He’s a big man. Drinks more whiskey than you’ve ever seen anyone drink. He’s also broken more glasses than you’ve ever seen break.

No matter how much he seems to drink, he never seems fazed, always asking for “Another!”

You decide that he’s an alien. After all, no “mere mortal” (completely his words) could drink that much and walk as straight as he managed to.

But apparently, even aliens have mastered the art of losing. He always whispers a soft salute to someone, barely audible over the murmur of the bar before he downs his drink in one large gulp.

_Mother mourns for you. As do I. May the warriors of Valhalla welcome you, brother._

Then, it’s Natasha. She’s stunning. That’s really the only way that she can be described. From her actions to her every word, she’s captivating.

She’ll smile. She’ll flirt. She’ll wink. And you’d be in her clutches. Not that it’s a bad place to be. Because once you’re there, she’ll care. About you. About how bright your smile is. About how dark the circles under your eyes are.

She’ll care. Not about herself.

She sits to James’s left in the third seat, the painted nail of her pointer finger circling the lip of her third empty Vodka shot glass.

She’ll gesture once more for another round. All for herself. As if she’s trying to forget something she’s done. She doesn’t seem successful in that attempt as she finishes the drinks within mere minutes.

You hope she gets home safely.

Then it’s Tony.

He’s on his seventh martini of the night, hands shaking. But he orders another drink. His words are slurred, voice cracking. The drink in your hand will be the last you give him, you decide.

You don’t have to force him out after he’s finished because he’s stumbling off the seat and rushing toward the restrooms. Bruce rushes in after him, his half-finished drink sitting on the sticky bar counter that seemed to stay ever sticky despite the multitude of times you cleaned it with mediocrely lemon-scented cleaner.

They come out what seems like hours later. You set down a glass of water in front of Tony’s seat, despite knowing that he wouldn’t drink it.

“Sorry.” The word is soft as Bruce deposits the drunk man in his seat. His chocolate eyes look at the glass of water.

He doesn’t drink it, scarred hands coming up to rest beside it.

You’re not sure what he’s apologizing for but you reply, “It’s okay. No worries.”

His shoulders slump in relief, almost as if he needed to hear those words. You offer him a soft smile, telling him to drink the water and that he’ll feel better if he does.

He does. And also asks for more. You don’t hesitate to give him more water.

When the bar closes, the group is always the last to leave, mumbles of unnecessary ‘thank you’s leaving their lips.

You smile and look around the now empty bar.

You missed the times that they used to come here, each to drown their own sorrows.

You close the door, locking it, leaving it to open early the next morning to a group of heroes that wouldn’t return.


	2. Wise Fools [Steve Rogers Series]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Hydra hires an agent of SHIELD to bring down an none other than the Captain himself, chaos ensues.

**Fool Me Once**

 

“Two hundred is my final offer.” You said, resting your feet on the table in front of you. Across from you, sat none other than Jasper Sitwell. The man who had been trying to hire you for your skills. Specifically, those pertaining to killing. The ones you used to stop someone’s heartbeat without leaving a single mark on their body.

“YOU WANT TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS TO KILL A MAN?!” He roared, standing up.

“The very man who happens to be none other than Captain America.” You replied smoothly. That seemed to get through to him.

“You’re nothing but a fool! A murderer–”

“Who’s skills that are of a great need to you.” You piped in before he could finish his sentence. He snarled at you at you stared unflinchingly at him.

“One fifty. I go no higher.” He said at last. You stood up.

“Then my skills are of no use to you.” You smirked, knowing exactly how to get what you wanted. You began to walk out of the room.

“Wait! You want two hundred. Okay, you get two hundred.” He said quickly.

“You see, five minutes ago, I would’ve taken that offer but then I was insulted. I’m asking, no sorry, demanding two fifty now.” You smiled sardonically, “I start tomorrow. Your job will be done in a week, at most.”

Sitwell opened his mouth to protest but decided against increasing the price once again.

“If you don’t kill him, Hydra will be at your front steps.”

“‘If’ never comes into the variables. Never has, never will. Take my word for it. I will kill him.” You said calmly. “Oh, I don’t have steps in front of my house.” You smirked, walking out of the room.

~ ~ ~

You took out your phone, dialing Coulson’s number. He picked up almost immediately.

“(Y/N)?”

“Phil.”

“Any leads?”

“His name is Jasper Sitwell.” You replied to his question. “And he just hired me to take off Steve’s head.” You growled. Ever since you had first joined S.H.E.I.L.D., you had a long-standing rivalry with none other than Captain America.

“(Y/N)…” Coulson warned.

“I’m thinking I should take him up on the offer.” You continued, you blind rage at Steve only increasing by the moment.

“Stay professional. This is still a mission.” Coulson warned.

“You have your information. Goodbye.” You snapped, hanging up on him before he could even have the time to open his mouth.

Seething, you walked back to the Tower, making sure no one had followed you. Taking the back entrance to add to the act, you entered the building with your eyes filled with rage and a frown on your face.

Your luck increased tenfold as you ran into none other than your very best friend Steve Rogers.

Your only acknowledgment of his presence was to glare at him and give him a dirty look.

“(Y/L/N).” He greeted his face a blank canvas.

“Sir Asshole.” You replied, nodding his way, before rushing past him, purposely knocking into his shoulder to knock him out of the way.

Before you could take another step, he grabbed your arm and pulled you back. “We have a training session in an hour. Don’t miss it.” He said, his grip on your arm tight.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” You replied, your voice laced with venom as you harshly tugged your hand out of his grip.

Only one good thing came out of your training sessions with him. Neither of you held back. He knew that no matter how hard he hit you, you’d always stand back up, ready to fight again as if the blow had never landed in the first place. He didn’t know where your strength came from but he didn’t question it.

Of course, both of you would wake up the next morning with bruises and small cuts littered all over your bodies but both of you reveled in the pain.

You didn’t bother to cast another look back at him. You didn’t understand why he hated you but to hell, you weren’t going to counter.

It was probably because you frustrated him to no end. Always undermining his authority that he was oh so egotistical about. Always pointing out  _every single damn_  flaw in his plans. You two never stood on equal footing. Either he had an edge on you or you on him. You two never agreed on one thing, much to the dismay of the team.

 ~ ~ ~

An hour later, you stood in your work-out clothes, doing your routine stretches while waiting for Steve.

He walked in a few minutes later. You stood up to your full height, which was still a good head and a half shorter than him. Walking over, you scowled at him.

“You told me not to be late and yet here you are.” You pointed out, crossing your arms. He simply replied with a glare.

“We start in five.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, when was this decided?” You retorted.

“Two seconds ago.”

“I’m afraid that wasn’t a mutual decision.”

He glared at you.

“What do you want?”

“We’re here for a sparring session, are we not?” You smirked. “It would be my only need for us to actually  _spar_.”

“We. Start. In. Ten. Minutes.” He said with gritted teeth.

You smirked, successful in your personal mission to get him all riled up.

Ten minutes later, he was done with his warm-up. You were lounging on the ground next to the mats, quite literally twiddling your thumbs.

“Get up.” Steve said curtly.

“Make me.” You shot back. Almost immediately, you were standing up, with Steve’s hand on your collar.

“That was a new shirt.” You snarled, throwing the first blow. He dodged and let go of your collar, bounding back so that you couldn’t reach him. Within two seconds you were within range of landing blows on him.

You aimed a kick to his stomach, at the last minute angling your foot up to hit his chest. It was barely enough to faze him as the next thing you knew, he was coming at you with a series of kicks and punches that you barely managed to dodge, only throwing your arms up to defend yourself.

The both of you fought like well-trained dancers. Each anticipating the next move and taking the measures required to counter it.  Neither of you seemed to have the edge, both struggling to bring the other to their feet.

At last, a plan formed in your head.  _Simply tackle him._ He wouldn’t expect it because you had never done it before. Also, you weren’t going to deal with his shit today. You wanted this to end as soon as possible.

Within seconds, you had executed your plan and he was on the ground, you straddling him with an elbow pressed to his neck to keep from too much air getting to his windpipe.

“Say it.” You smirked.

“No.” He choked out.

“Say it.”

“N-” You pressed harder on his throat.

“Y-you win.” He gasped. You let him go, standing up quickly.

“Not on your A-game today, gramps?” You teased, grabbing your water bottle and leaving the gym before he could say much else.

As soon as you got back to your room, your phone rang.

“Hello?”

“We need to talk.” Sitwell’s voice rang out.

“Creep.” You muttered, wondering how the hell he had managed to get your number.

“You had a good chance.” he continued.

You stiffened, realizing exactly what Sitwell was talking about.

“I told you I would finish the job when I would. I don’t need you scrutinizing my every move.”

The conversation continued, you didn’t realize that Steve was right outside your door, listening to every exchanged word.

“I’ll kill him when I do.” You snapped, hanging up on him. You now realized that Hydra really was everywhere. And that you needed to keep your eyes peeled.

You left the room, crashing straight into Steve.

“This is a new low, even for you.” He snarled, his gruff voice sealing your impending doom.

 

**Shame On You**

 

The rain came in waves outside, pounding against the reinforced glass windows of the Avengers’ Facility.

The room stayed deathly silent, Steve sitting across from you with a furious look glazing over the turmoil in his eyes.

“Talk,” He said simply, his tone demanding. You offered him sickly sweet smile.

“Usually, when you find a traitor, you don’t interrogate them, Cap.” You said, your voice silky. “You kill them.”

“Talk.” He replied a little more forcefully.

“I am talking.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why do this? After everything you fought for?” He demanded, his tone rising steadily to level with his anger.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you the truth.”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t, not when it’s come this far.” You clenched your jaw at his words.

“Stop speaking like you know everything,  _Captain._ ” You mocked in a condescending tone.

“Enlighten me then.” He growled.

“I already told you that you wouldn’t believe me if I told you shit.” You snapped, your hands tightening into fists as you tugged at the cuffs holding you down.

A knock echoed loudly at the door, causing Steve to shoot up.

“Don’t move.” He said simply, walking over to open the door.

“Captain, we’re under attack.” Were the simple words that left Coulson’s mouth before Steve sprung into action, shooting you once last warning glare. 

You only offered a simple look of confusion.

The moment that Steve left the room, Coulson walked in, his mouth set downwards in a frown.

“I can’t believe you made me lie to him.” He said, walking towards you whilst shaking his head in disbelief, “I just lied to Captain America and I’m going to fucking die. Thanks (Y/N).”

“It’s not my fault that he’s a fucking bitch.” You snapped, still angry at the fact that you had been at his mercy mere seconds ago. He unlocked the cuffs, letting them drop to the floor. 

“(Y/N), calm down,” Coulson said. 

“I am calm.” 

“(Y/N),”

“Phillip.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down.” 

Phil sighed, “We did a check on Sitwell.”

“And…?” You asked.

“He’s clean.”

“Are you saying you don’t trust my information?”

“I’m saying you may have made a mistake.”

“Maybe I did. Maybe I should’ve given the information to someone to someone who’d actually use it.”

“Agent (Y/L/N),” He began.

“No longer on a first name basis are we, Coulson?” You asked, not an ounce of emotion in your voice.

“(Y/N)–”

“No, don’t even start,” You held up a finger. “I’ll do it myself. Thank you for the assistance you’ve provided thus far.” You said, your eyes cold and distant.

 ~ ~ ~

It had been hours since you had left the tower.

No one had followed. You had made sure of that. You were an agent, you knew how to hide.

The first thing you had done was find a computer. Your search had lead you to a library.

You didn’t expect Rumlow to be there. So when you had felt an unfamiliar hand on your shoulder, you attacked with the one thing in your hand, a pen.

Jabbing it upwards and aiming for the stranger’s pulse point on his neck, you stood up quickly. He blocked your arm easily, grabbing it and wrenching it behind your back.

“Come with me,” He demanded, his grip tightening. You breathed a sigh of relief, (much to his displeasure) thankful it hadn’t been a civilian who had been behind you.

“I give.” You said simply.

He loosened his grip and you took the moment to see if anyone else had seen the little skirmish.

“How’s the mission coming along, Agent (Y/L/N)?” He mocked, seeing that you were now technically on the run.

“Wonderful, thanks for your concern.”

“If that were true, why isn’t Rogers dead?”

“I had a week.” You snapped, turning around to glare at him.

“You had too many openings to take him out and yet, you didn’t.”

You stiffened, Sitwell hadn’t been lying. Of course, he’d been watching you.

“I said I would, didn’t I?” You clenched your jaw.

“Too late now, sweetheart. Sitwell wants an audience.”

“So why the talking? Let’s go.” You said. A flash of anger crossed his eyes before his hand locked around your arm, gripping it tightly as he basically dragged you out of the library, his breath falling on the back of your neck.

As an armored, black vehicle parked itself at the library entrance, you tensed. It was a SHIELD vehicle. Until Rumlow forced you into the door. It didn’t belong to SHIELD. Not anymore.

“Hey! Watch it!” You snapped as your knee hit the edge of the seat, making you stumble into the seat. He only smirked as something pressed to the side of your neck, applying a cold pressure before you felt a sharp pain.

The last thing you saw was Sitwell’s unconscious figure in the passengers’ seat of the car, the tinted window blocking the sight from the outside.

Then everything went black.

~ ~ ~

It was the light dampness that hung in the air that first caused you to stir. Taking shallow breaths, you attempted to sit up, groaning instead at the greeting of a pounding headache.

“And Sleeping Beauty awakens.” Brock Rumlow’s voice announced. You blinked blatantly, your eyes adjusting to the dim lighting of the room.

“How sweet of you to think of me as beautiful.” You snapped, your eyes narrowing at the leather straps binding you to the table. You tugged against them, some naive part of you praying they’d give way.

You turned your head to see Rumlow’s sarcastic smirk, “You’re a fool if you think I work for that bastard.” He grinned sardonically, his eyes flitting over to Jasper Sitwell’s broken frame.

He slumped over a vat of something. You could only hear the ‘pop’ of the bubbles atop the liquid. You stiffened.  _Oil._ Nothing boiled like  _that_ but  _oil_.

Rumlow jerked your head away from Sitwell just as another Hydra agent pushed his head under, his screams muffled by the oil as it filled his lungs, scathing him as he struggled against the agent’s grip.

Then nothing.

He stopped struggling. You stiffened, Rumlow’s calloused fingers grasping your chin to keep your eyes on him.

“Keep your eyes on me.” He demanded, not a single trace of remorse in his voice.

You only gulped in response, much to his pleasure.

“What’s your play?” He said, his grip loosening as he traced his pointer finger along your jaw, pushing a piece of stray hair out of your face. You scowled in revulsion, jerking harshly away from his touch. A sharp growl left his lips as he harshly turned your face back towards him, “I saw Coulson free you. I saw you talking to him.”

“I had to play my role.” You retorted.

He only growled, his hand swinging forward to collide with your cheek. You flinched, biting the inside of your cheek to refuse him the pleasure of seeing your pain.

“Answer my question.”

“I did.” You snarled.

“What. Is. Your. Play?” He demanded.

“I don’t have one. I’m all yours,  _honey_ ,” You said, meeting his gaze unwaveringly. You saw his jaw move fractionally as it clenched in anger.

Before he could react, he stopped himself.

“Get her to Strucker.” He commanded sharply, turning on his heel before turning once to look back at you, “She’ll be a good specimen. She should last long.”

Your eyes widened, your breathing picking up at you met his eyes once more before he turned away.

The moment that the dictatorial hands of two agents closing around your arms, freeing you from the leather binds, you knew that maybe,  _maybe_ you should’ve listened to Steve.  _Maybe,_  he’d been right.  _Maybe,_ just  _maybe,_ you were of no use to SHIELD when you risked the lives of others.

And now Hydra had you. And no one was coming.

 

**Fool Me Twice**

 

Fear.

That was the only thing that filled your veins.

Your hands shook by your side as you forced herself to stay calm….at least until you could make it back home.

But where was  _home_?

You blinked away the tears forming in your eyes, your head resting against the cold, unforgiving metal cell which you’d been shut in.

When…  _if_ … you made it back, you could immediately count on the fact that you’d be thrown out of the Facility. Of course, by no one other than Steve.

And for the first time in your life, you were scared. Genuinely scared.  _Terrified._

No one would come for you. You weren’t stupid. You knew Steve never do it. Not for you. He had a group of  _capable_ heroes to lead. What were you compared to them?

Steve was right.

If only you’d been half the agent Peggy Carter was. If only you weren’t so damn  _reckless_. If only….

The cell door screeched open, echoing loudly in your ears as the steel frame of the door scraped against the hard concrete floor. You winced at the sound.

Two cold hands closed around your shoulders, lifting you up as if you weighed nothing. And fuck, you may as well have been weightless from everything Rumlow put you through.

“It’s been two weeks, sweetheart. They ain’t coming.” His voice whispered in your ear. His hot breath fanned over your neck as you stayed limp in his arms, having  _nothing_ to fight back with.

“I know.” You replied weakly, your voice not crossing an octave above a whisper. You didn’t have to turn around to know that he was smirking.

He was triumphant.

He had won.

Hydra had won.

~ ~ ~

Phil sat stiffly in front of the director, his eyes downcast and his jaw clenched.

“It’s been two weeks, Agent Coulson. Two weeks and you haven’t been able to track her down.” Fury stated calmly, his voice hinting at undertones of anger.

Coulson opened his mouth, closing it seconds later in fear of what would come out.

He knew one thing for sure.

Hydra had you.

And he may have just lost someone he considered his daughter.

~ ~ ~

“I’m gonna ask you one more time, sweetheart. Wouldn’t wanna mess up such a pretty face.” Rumlow growled, the calloused pad of his pointer finger tracing along the skin of your jaw. You stayed stiff against the table you were strapped to, the leather straps digging into your wrists and calves.

“What’s Coulson planning, sending you in?” He repeated for the second time. You stayed silent, your jaw clenched.

It was at this point that you realized it might’ve been better to have been a Hydra agent.

At least then, you’d have had a cyanide pill hidden in your cheek to bite down on.

It would’ve been so damn easy.

A sharp slap landed on your cheek, causing you to jerk your head violently away. The blow sent you reeling, dark spots swimming across your vision from multiple days of suffering from malnutrition.

He grabbed your chin roughly, forcing your head back towards him.

And you didn’t fight. You didn’t  _fight._

You stayed still as the sharp edge of a serrated blade pressed against the unmarred skin of your cheek, pressing close enough to send pin-pricks of electric fear through your veins but never breaking the skin as he traced it down to your neck.

The blade pressed closer to your skin, causing both your heart rate to pick up and a single line of blood to appear, tainting the fresh edge.

“Aren’t we going a bit slow?” You asked, a mocking smirk playing at your lips.

It was then that you screamed for the first time in seven hours.

He had you  _begging_  for him to stop, loud whimpers of,  _No…please_ filling the cold, empty room.

The pain was constant, always gnawing at you, never leaving.

It was then that you formed your first comprehensible sentence after hours of pain.

You asked one thing, “Kill me.”

He only grinned, “I’m not done with you yet.” He remarked simply before everything went gray.

No, not black.

You were still conscious, you could see the silhouette of his bulky form as he leaned over you, hands working over your body to undo the restraints binding you to the table.

He lifted you off the table effortlessly, carrying you back to your cell.

The wall you slumped against feeling too cold as your eyes closed, various cuts on your body bleeding profusely.

~ ~ ~

Steve was scared.

Sure, he’d been scared when he’d agreed to be Doctor Eksrine’s man for the serum.

Sure, he’d been scared when he’d paraded in front of units as Captain America, punching Adolf Hitler repeatedly in the face.

Sure, he’s been scared when he received news of the 107th’s apparent doom.

He’d been terrified when Bucky had fallen off the moving train into the frigid ravine.

But he’d gotten Bucky back.

He had no guarantee that he’d get you back.

Steve was  _scared._

This caused him to be forced into multiple audiences with Fury, discussing his erratic behavior.

Whether or not he wanted to admit it, Steve cared.

He cared about the times when you had both been at each other’s throats, screaming bloody murder for petty matters.

He cared every time you pointed out a flaw in his plan of attack.

He cared every time that your fists landed on his torso, dealing endless blows that made him falter.

He cared about the times when you’d avoid each other like the plague, both your lips pursed in silent retaliation.

And he cared about the times that you watched each other’s backs, not a word passed between the two of you , during missions.

And when Coulson had explained everything, Steve had  _frozen_ all over again.

He stood in front of the punching bag, his hands steadying the swaying bag from his ferocious jabs. His breathing came in labored gasps, struggling to fill his lungs with the air he so needed.

“Captain Rogers,” came the soft voice of a new recruit, clutching a clipboard tightly to her chest. His head snapped up attentively, his azure eyes glazed over.

“We have a location on her,” That was all it took for Steve to run out of the room, frightening the recruit as he rushed past.

He’s suited up within moments, his hands shaking in anticipation.

The Quinjet had taken off too slowly for his liking, despite himself being the pilot.

~ ~ ~

Hope was something that you no longer believed in.

It only brought pain. Nothing more.

You gave up, no longer fighting. Of course, Rumlow didn’t get the information he wanted. And you didn’t get the relief of death you so craved.

So when the door of  the cell had opened for the second time that day, you flinched, a small whimper escaping your lips as you tried to scramble away.

Steve stood at the door, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth set downwards in a frown.

He took tentative steps towards you, not speaking until he had taken a series of deep, calming breaths.

“(Y/N),” He asked softly, his voice cracking despite everything he tried to do to keep it steady. You had stiffened at his voice, clenching your jaw as you heard the quiver in his voice.

It couldn’t be real.

He wouldn’t come.

You hesitantly turned your head to meet his gaze, your every movement making you wince.

“He messed me up so fuckin’ much, I’m…thinking of  _you_.” You choked out, your eyes meeting his. Steve wanted to break then. His heart  _shattered_.

“This isn’t you, you wouldn’t come. Not for me.” You muttered, what little energy you had dwindling further. You broke into a fit of coughs. A flash of concern crossed Steve’s features.

“We have to go,” He said softly, placing his hands on your forearms. You flinched, almost involuntarily from his touch. His features hardened in anger towards Rumlow. Towards Hydra.

“Why….are you…here?” You asked, taking in lungfuls of air.

“I gotta get you back…”

“That’s cute,” You cracked an exhausted smile, “I know this isn’t real. You’re not  _here._ ”

A tear streamed down Steve’s face.

“Do you trust me?” Steve asked in a broken voice. Almost seeming as if he cared. You offered him a short laugh, which caused another fit of coughs to erupt from the depths of your throat.

“I don’t have a reason to.”

 

**Shame On Me**

 

It was a fact that Steven Grant Rogers had been through hell and back in the entirety of his life.

But in that one moment, he’d never felt more helpless. Not when he’d been wheezing in a desperate attempt to get enough air to his lungs. Not when he’d been rejected countless times by the US Army.

You had never had sounded so broken. So  _frail,_ then when you’d said that you didn’t have a reason to trust him.

Your voice brought him out of his daze, “Christ…Cap, can’t you even let me die in peace?” You slurred, exhaustion making your words come out in a forced whisper. You weakly tried to push him away as he wrapped his arms around your stooping figure, lifting you off the ground effortlessly.  You didn’t struggle.

You took a sharp breath, wincing in pain as he held you against his chest, walking towards the door of the cell, “Just ‘cause I fucked up, doesn’t mean you get to stop me from dying.” You wheezed, attempting and failing to push yourself out of his grip.

That was the moment that Steve felt that his heart stopped beating.He clenched his jaw, taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

“Shut up and let me save you.” He whispered hurriedly, his voice strained. His thoughts swirled like a maelstrom of pain and fear.

“What if I don’t wanna be saved, Captain? I…I’m not worth it. You…werenot supposed to come for me…” You muttered, the excessive loss of your blood making you delirious.

“Shut up!” Steve snapped, his emotions disabling his ability to control them. You flinched.

“I’m sorry. Please…don’t…I….” You whimpered, repeating the plea that Rumlow had heard leave you lips too many times to count. Steve stiffened.

“Fuck.” He said sharply under his breath.

You stayed silent after that, much too scared of the arms that surrounded you. Your breaths came in shallow gasps as your eyes drooped.

~ ~ ~

It was chaos in the infirmary as multiple doctors rushed around trying to keep you alive.

“Multiple lacerations on the torso, excessive blood loss, heart rate 50 and falling.” A doctor shouted, earning a look of grave determination from the others in the room.

It was hours later that you had come out of surgery, having flatlined approximately four times during the stressing procedure.

Little did you know that Steve had been outside, sitting on the ground right outside the operating room as he waited for any news. When Helen Cho had walked out, he’d jumped to his feet, demanding to know your condition.

Upon receiving the information he’d hoped for, he held back tears of happiness, Dr. Cho only offering him a small smile. “She’s barely conscious, but you can go see her.” She said softly, gently squeezing his shoulder. Without another word, he took a shaky breath, “Okay.” He said, not a trace of the Captain remaining in him. In that moment, he was just Steve.

He took unsure steps into the room you were in. His hands shook by his side as he took a seat on your bed. Steve’s cerulean eyes flitted over your frame, the multiple bandages covering your body slowly being stained with your blood.

He listened to the steady  _beep_ of the heart monitor, his eyes following the seemingly constant green line. Your chest rose steadily, the oxygen mask around your mouth fogging as you took slow breaths. Your eyes opened slowly, straining against the bright lights.

“Captain,” You greeted, meeting his eyes. Steve gulped.

Not even 'Steve’, but Captain.

“How are you feeling?” He asked softly.

You attempted to sit up, succeeding only in eliciting a sharp cry of agony. Steve stood up, gently pushing you back down.

“Cap, just give me a week, alright? Just until I can move my sorry ass. Just a week and I’ll be gone.” You asked forcing the words out of your throat, ignoring his question. His eyes softened, tears filling his gaze.

Before he could even open his mouth to say anything, Coulson knocked on the door frame, looking through the open door.

“Can I talk to her?” He asked softly. Steve clenched his jaw, blinking away his tears as he stood up.

“Of course.” He said, a tremor in his voice.

He left the room as Coulson walked in.

“Look…I’m sorry, okay? I couldn’t get any info. Sitwell’s dead…” You began, freezing in surprise as Coulson wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug.

“Phil?” You asked in confusion.

“Do you actually think any of that matters?” He demanded, pulling away from the hug.

“I…but…”

“Shut up.”

~ ~ ~

Weeks later, you found yourself on crutches, somewhat able to move, however slowly. You struggled around your room, packing what little belongings you claimed. You knew to keep little, after all, what use was there for material things when you had no place to call  _home_?

Throwing your clothes haphazardly into a small backpack, you zipped it up, swaying on your crutches as you swung it over your shoulder. Your uniform and I.D. sat safely in the crook of your arm as you struggled, teetering dangerously on the metal poles as you wobbled out of your room.

Not even halfway to Steve’s room, you heard his voice, “Where are you going?” You froze, turning around to face him, “To your room actually.” You said, staring at him, your figure hunched over the crutches.

“You know what I meant.” He said softly.

“I…I don’t know.” You admitted, “I’ll find something, though. I’m good at that.” You said, the words more to reassure yourself than him. Steve made his way over to you, helpingyour stand up straight.

“Why?” He asked, his hands remaining on your shoulder, keeping you upright.

“The week I asked for is up, Captain. I’ve overstayed actually. Couldn’t heal fast enough.”

It was then that you realized this was the first civilized conversation you had with him. And it was when you were saying goodbye.

You tilted your head up to meet his eyes.

“I was on my way to find you…” You muttered. your gaze falling to the uniform in your hand. You faltered for a moment, “I don’t have a use for it anymore. Here.” You said, handing it to him along with your I.D.

“You’re actually leaving.” He finalized.

“Way to go, Captain.” You teased, despite the gnawing at your heart.

“Why?” He asked again.

“You said so yourself, Cap. There’s no place on the team for someone like me.” You said, taking a small step away from him.

“I…I wasn’t thinking–” He began.

“You were right,” You interrupted, “When…with Rumlow…I understood it. There isn’t place for someone like me. Not when I put everyone at risk. I put you at risk by falling for his tricks.” You continued, “I’m sorry, Steve.” You whispered.

Without another word, Steve’s arms wrapped around you, pulling your frame tightly to his chest, “God, I hate you.” He said, his breath fanning over the crown of your head. You stayed silent, frozen in shock at his show of sudden affection.

“This is what you’re supposed to do, dammit. You’re supposed to challenge me. You’re supposed to scream at me. You’re supposed to make me want to throttle you. You’re supposed to make me feel helpless. You’re supposed to make me want to fucking scream. That’s what you’re supposed to do. That’s what you’re supposed to do!”

“Steve?” You asked, you voice muffled against his chest. He let you go, holding you at arms length.

“You’re not supposed to give up, not like this. You’re supposed to be here.” He whispered, his voice hoarse, “You can’t give up. Not when…you just can’t…” He begged. You blinked as he embraced you once more.

“You’re such an idiot.” He said, his voice shaking. “You can’t leave.”

“Steve…I’m…”

“You’re not leaving.” He said, tears flowing freely down his face, “God help me, but you’re not leaving.” He shoved the uniform back into your arms, a look of helpless longing on his face.

“Steve…I can’t…I don’t understand.” You managed.

“I need you, dammit!” He snapped, “I need you to point out everything I’m doing wrong. I need you to kick my ass every time we spar. I need you to argue with me.”

You stood frozen, your eyes wide.

“I just need you…please…” He gasped, his grip tightening on your shoulders. It was your turn to tackle him in a hug, your face buried in his chest.

“You are, by far the biggest fucking idiot on this planet.” You muttered. Steve returned your embrace, his tears falling on your head. 

God damn you if you cared. All you knew was that you were  _home._


	3. One Last Dance [Steve Rogers]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walking away from the venue, his jaw clenched, he knows he should’ve asked her for one last dance. (Steve Rogers x Reader)

He should’ve asked her. He should’ve held her in his arms, whispering promising words between pressing kisses to her forehead. He should’ve told her how much he loved her. He should’ve…he should’ve.

But he didn’t. And yet, he should’ve.

He regrets it, that much is true. He can’t stop thinking about his mistake either. The truth was he’d never loved her as much as he believed he did. And, he regrets that. Because he really did love her. Just not enough to ask for her forgiveness.

And admit his wrong.

And admit that she was his greatest treasure.

And admit that she was his anchor.

~~~

The flowers are white. But to Steve, they haven’t looked darker.

It’s with a sudden realization that he sees what they are.

Calla lilies.

She loves those.

He doesn’t want to smile but he can’t help the upwards twitch of his lips because there’s this sense of lightness that he feels every time he imagines her smile. As if he’s free, the chains that he’s constraining himself with no longer able to hold him back.

He forces the smile back, jaw clenching as he remembers all the fucking stupid mistakes that he’s made when the simplest solution to his problems would’ve been to apologize.

Steve runs a shaky hand through his hair, a soft huff leaving his parted lips.

A shout of his name catches his attention, eyes immediately seeking out the source of the source of the sound. It’s Wanda, waving her arm, gesturing him to the front of the venue. He doesn’t move for a moment, muscles taut as if he’s in battle again, contemplating whether to stay and fight or run.

He chooses to stay and fight, swallowing down the lump of guilt that’s so prominent and takes so goddamn long to dissipate.

His posture is straight, back rigid with tension, looking normal to the untrained eye.

Steve’s legs are working mindlessly, carrying him towards the altar.

~~~

She’s beautiful. That’s the only way that her elegance can be described, the pure white dress outlining every curve of her body as she walks down the aisle, a dazzling smile adorning her lips.

Those lips that he should’ve kissed.

Those lips that his thumb should’ve traced over, his baby blue eyes looking at her own, whispering how much he loved her.

Her eyes catch his and her smile falters slightly. He’s the only one to see it because the next thing he knows, you’ve tripped over your dress, heels catching on the material.

And you’re falling.

And he’s stepped forward, catching you before you embarrass yourself further.

You’re in his arms again. For perhaps the shortest moment.

Then you’re standing again, his hands on your shoulders, steadying you. You want to be back in those arms. That alcove of safety meant only for you.

Of course, you don’t say anything.

Clearing your throat, you’re back on your feet, striding forward once again and towards your fiance, a worried look crossing his face. You force a quick smile his way despite the overwhelming disappointment you felt.

~~~

Steve finds himself mouthing the words along to the vows, lips moving to the words. As if he was the one saying them.

Because it should’ve been. It should’ve been him to propose to you. It should’ve been him that you’d said ‘yes’ to. It should’ve been him that you smiled because of.

It should’ve been him that you loved.

 "If anyone objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace.“

He freezes. Not that he can help it. He can’t.

He objects.   

He also holds his peace.

He watches with bated breath as you kiss your husband.

He listens with wary ears at your laugh, your husband’s hands winding around your waist to pull you close.

But he doesn’t say anything.

~~~

Steve doesn’t stay for dinner.

He doesn’t want to.

Because there all he feels is this looming sense of doom.

He’s lost the love of his life.

He hadn’t told her that he’d loved her.

And he hadn’t kissed her.

And he hadn’t asked her for one last dance.


	4. Fall with Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanons on how spending the fall with Steve Rogers would be like.

  * ok so steve steve steve—this guy  _loves_ fall. the moment that the weather starts getting even remotely cold, he’ll have his sweaters out and ready to go (not that he really needs them bc the serum helps with keeping him warm but you’re not complaining bc now they’re in plain sight for you to steal.)
  * as the season picks up and the leaves start falling, it’ll seem like the child in him never grew up because he’ll be pulling you outside to jump in leaf piles with him (he’d been raking the yard all morning and has been wanting to jump in for a few hours, only waiting bc he knows that you’d enjoy it too)
  * when the two of you come back inside with leaves decorating your hair and smelling like dirt, he’d usher the two of you into the bathroom for a long, hot bath that ends up in a collective 9 bruises from slipping on the water that had spilled over the side of the tub from splashing each other. 
  * but the highlight of spending fall with steve is his signature drink — a ‘special’ hot chocolate that’s really only special bc he sprinkles cinnamon over the whipped cream on top. (ever since he was small, mrs.rogers would make him hot chocolate and he’s been trying to replicate the recipe ever since)
  * you absolutely love his hot chocolate — almost as much as you love curling into his side while watching some stupid movie that neither of you are paying attention to as you sip it. 
  * really it’s a stupid question of  _how_ you’d even be able to focus on the movie when you’ve got steve’s arm around you, his warmth seeping into your bones and his heartbeat is loud and calming in your ears — it’s impossible not to fall asleep. 
  * but obviously, you love this because the moment that the leaves start to fall  _this_ is what you look forward to — spending time with steve.
  * in fact, you’re basically begging him to make you hot chocolate by the time you see the first leaf on the ground, if not before because you know that this means you can finally spend some time with him in peace and for once, he’ll let you put him before anything else
  * also!!! fall dates!!! steve loves taking you on walks around central parks and he’s extra cheesy™ during them —holding your hand? check. kissing your nose every other minute? check. ‘steve look that the colors! aren’t they so pretty?’ ‘not as pretty as you, sweetheart.’? check.
  * and when u get home, steve’ll go sit outside on the balcony and sketch the falling leaves and sometimes you’ll join him there, watching how relaxed he looks when he’s trying to shade something  _just_ right so that it’s popping off the page. (you have a few picture of him concentrating so much that he hadn’t noticed his tongue starting to stick out of his mouth —  needless to say, he didn’t notice you take the picture)
  * and then, the apple picking days come. 
  * at first, you don’t want to get up bc the nearest one is an hour drive away and he wants to get there before the rush begins but the bed is so comfortable and — ‘steve i will end you if you dare try to carry me out’ (he only gets smacked twice in the face with a pillow before you give up)
  * even with the hour and a half you take in the bathroom to irk him, you two manage to make good time
  * you learn one thing that day
  * steve has bad ideas
  * no scratch that, he’s got  _terrible_ ideas
  * who the fuck tries to climb an apple tree when you’re a 200lb + super soldier
  * he ends up with a bruise on his jaw — ‘kiss it better?’ ‘i would if it was an accident. WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?’ 
  * somehow he ends up carrying you out of the farm on his back (you’re v sure it’s his way of making up for being an idiot but you’ll be damned if you’re not gonna take advantage of the situation  — ‘forward, my noble steed!’)
  * and as fun as it is, you have to beg him to let you down because you see some caramel apples in the store window and apple cider donuts and you  _really_ want some but steve suddenly seems blind because he walks right  _past_ them
  * ‘steve i have to break up with you’ 
  * he buys 3 dozen donuts and 10 caramel apples for the team but the donuts? those are yours. steve’s lucky he got a fourth of one.
  * but really, he knows you’re not gonna finish them all and you’re probably gonna forget them after a day or two so  _he waits_
  * it’s a week later that he finally finds the courage to take one and eat it when you’re wrapped up with him on the couch (which at this point you’re 99.99% sure is a ritual at this point) 
  * it’s obvious he’s still actually not completely sure about eating it bc he’s sneaking bites of it like you already don’t know what he’s eating (you counted them)
  * ‘steve wyd?’
  * with a mouth full bc apparently manners are no longer a thing when he’s trying to keep something on the down low, ‘nothing’
  * god you love this idiot




	5. Love [Bucky Barnes]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never had the words ‘I love you’ been shared between the two, but perhaps, it wasn’t necessary. (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

_I love you._

Never were the three words exchanged between you two.

That’s the strange thing about love. It doesn’t have to be said. It can be shown. In the simplest of ways. The smallest actions…

Like the way he clung to you after one of his nightmares. As if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to this world. To keep him from floating off into the dark depths of his mind. As if you were the one bright light guiding him through fields of darkness that plagued him day by day.

Like the way his lips tilted into that smile of his whenever he saw you. The one where his eyes crinkled at the edges and he showed all his teeth. And where it seemed as if every ounce of stress and pressure of his lifestyle vanished from his being. Where it was as if the sun shone for the very existence of the upward tilt of his lips. That funny smile of his where once it was gone, you would never find it if you looked. The one you always longed to see. The one that hid in its secret place. The one where it seems like you two are the only people on the planet, locked in each other’s eyes. The one he reserved for only you…  
  
Like the way he held your hand in his. Tightly, your fingers entwined with each other. Where the palms of your hands stayed together no matter the ordeal, whether it be the Devil himself. How he never would let it go. How he would sometimes brush his thumb on your knuckles, mindlessly. How he sometimes gripped your hand so tightly it hurt sometimes, as if he was trying to convince himself he would never lose you. 

Like the way he kissed you. Softly at first, his lips barely brushing yours, just a whisper. How then he would become more sure of himself and he would press his lips to yours harder. How your lips would move against each others in a well-synchronized dance. How he would pull away for just a moment, his lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something. But just as quickly, he would crash his lips into yours. How he would mumble promises of a beautiful future between kisses. How he would slowly put his arms around your waist and pull you flush against his body. How he would groan lightly when your hand tangled in his hair and tugged gently. 

Like how he look at you. As if you were the brightest star in the night sky. How it seemed as though every wrinkle from pain vanished the very moment his eyes would land on your face. How his eyes would brighten every time that your lips tilted upwards into a smile. And how they would darken as soon as your features showed the first sign of pain or discomfort.

Never once did Bucky Barnes tell you the three words.  _I love you._

But when he would drape his arm around your waist and pull you close, even in his deep sleep, you knew, he loved you.

And you loved him too.


	6. Stardust [Bucky Barnes]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A maid loves a lord. A lord loves a maid. Surely, a union between the two will never come to be. (Lord!Bucky Barnes x Castle Maid!Reader)

“Yes, milady. Of course.” You smiled widely as Queen Guinevere told you of the ball that she wished to hold at the palace today, in commemoration of her beloved King Arthur’s return.

She had called for your help in choosing a dress that was sure to catch the King’s eye.

After hours spent showing her beautiful gowns that you could only hope in vain to ever have the honor of wearing, she decided on a soft lavender gown. You could only gape at the way that it fitted her, bringing out every ounce of femininity in her very being.

“It’s lovely, my lady.” You said, unable to hide your astonishment. Guinevere smiled, holding the gown to her frame. Shamefully embarrassed by your momentary indulgence, you turned your gaze downwards. Just as a mere servant would be expected to behave.

The queen noticed your sudden change.

“Surely, you will be there?” She questioned.

“With all due respect, my queen, I’m afraid I cannot bow to your wishes.” You said, the words leaving your mouth with the ease of silk gliding over soft skin. These exact words had left your mouth many times. Always the same exact words, always the answer to this question.

You plastered on a smile. You didn’t understand why she asked you every time a great celebration took place when the  A part of you ached to go. However, no peasant such as yourself should associate themselves with the upper class.

Guinevere smiled sadly.

“I truly wish you will someday be able to grace us with your presence.” She smiled, her voice teasing at your reluctance.

“As do I.” You offered her a small smile. Ever since you had come to work at the castle, the queen had become a friend rather than your superior. But for a royal such as her to be so close with someone of a such a low standing as you, it was considered…blasphemous. You could be killed for it.

 **~ ~ ~**                                                                                   

A mere two hours between now and the ball.

You sat on your small bed, looking out the window in vain as you watched the knights spar together to practice their swordsmanship.

The clang of metal against metal echoed through the courtyard. You turned away from the window as the gaze of the very man whom you loved met your eyes. Your cheeks burned as he winked at you.

Lord James Buchanan Barnes. Heir to the throne of Draelle, Duke of Stirling. The man who sent your heart racing as if hundreds of stallions pounded within. The man who made your lips break out into a wide smile that according to him could rival the beauty of the moon. The man who you deeply loved.

You dispelled the thoughts immediately. You were a maid, a servant. He was a knight, one who was of royal blood.

_No, it wasn’t ‘love’, it was only infatuation._

You sighed in defeat, taking a short breath to regain your senses. You had to get back to the queen’s chambers to help her prepare for the ball.

Quickly, you shuffled to Her Majesty’s chambers, almost tripping over the edge of your simple, cream-colored dress.

In your haste to get there, you didn’t notice the small piece of memory slip off your wrist. The clink of the small bead against the stone of the ground went unnoticed as you scurried past.

Moments later, you found yourself in the queen’s chambers, once again helping her into her dress. You tightened her corset and pulled together the back of the dress. She smiled in the mirror as she saw her reflection. You smiled in return as you saw her beauty in its full form.

“Are you certain that you will not be attending?” She asked once more. Your smile faltered momentarily.

“I am truly sorry, milady. It was not my intention to offend you. It would be my pleasure to attend however, Alga will require my assistance.” You replied, hoping the queen would not find out your lie. Alga, the head maid had already excused you from your duties today, knowing it was the day that your mother had passed in her sleep.

“You did not offend me in any way.” She said, placing a soft hand on your shoulder. “It would be pleasant, however, to have a friend by my side.”

“You cannot see me in such a way, your majesty. It is not…it cannot be such a way. I am only your servant.” You said quickly, knowing that too many around the palace disliked how kind the queen was to you.

“You are more. You are a friend. A better one than any of the scheming whores painted in makeup could hope to be.” She laughed. Your eyes widened at her language and of how she spoke of the other princesses from nearby lands.

“But, my lady…” She cut you off.

“Every word uttered was from the heart, (Y/N). I truly did mean it. I value your friendship above theirs.” Guinevere smiled. You returned the smile.

“We must hurry,” You said quickly, trying to change the subject. Her smile faltered.

“I am sorry.” She muttered.

“No, my queen! Do not be sorry. I…your words…I must remain in my place.” You finished piling her hair a top her head, letting a few waves fall down her neck as you pinned it up.

To say she was stunning would have been an understatement.

“The King will not be able to gaze upon anyone but you, my queen.” You muttered in awe.

**~ ~ ~**

The ball was in full swing. Colorful lights hung from the ceiling, sparkling above the heads of the guests. However, you were nowhere to be seen.

No one knew where you went after you had finished your work. You seemingly disappeared.

None other than the one and only Lord James Barnes knew where to find a beautiful maiden such as yourself.

You sat in one of the many towers of the castle. One that had been long abandoned after a long war with the opposing kingdom of Germania. The archers no longer had any use for it.

The soft moonlight caressed your face as you looked out of the small window from which you took in the sight of the wonderful stars.

_“What are those, Mama? Why is it so shiny?”_

_“Each one is a jewel that an angel carries.” Your mother replied._

_“Can I have one?”_

_Her twinkling laughter echoed through the tower, cascading from her mouth like a smooth waterfall._

_“You already have one, you are one. ” She said finally, smiling down at you, “You’re the jewel an angel gave to me.”_

_“Mama, that’s not true!” You laughed, knowing how far-fetched her story was._

_“Ah, but it is,” She kissed your nose, “I asked the stars for you. And they gave this to me.” She held up a small bracelet with a leather band and a small charm of a glowing star. You gasped in awe._

_“Keep this with you and every time you call for me, Papa and I will be by your side. We’ll always be there to take care of our little jewel.” She ruffled your hair playfully, but you stopped her._

_“But if I am a jewel then why did Papa leave?”_

_She smiled sadly._

_“Papa didn’t leave, my love. He’s in a deep sleep, he’ll wake up when you are all grown up.”_

_“I want to grow up fast!”_

_“Ask the stars for that.”_

_Turning to the window, you looked at the glowing specks of white against a dark night._

_“Please, please let me go up quickly so Papa wakes up.” You whispered, your eyes wide in hope as you tightly clutched the bracelet your mother gave you._

 

You didn’t realize that you had been crying until you felt the stickiness of your dried tears upon your cheeks.

You quickly wiped them away, a small smile replacing your sadness. Your mother wouldn’t have wanted you to be crying.

“I love you, Mama.” You whispered to the stars, hoping that your words would someday reach her, just as she’d promised she would be there along with your father every step of the way.

Your moment of peace was shattered as a familiar voice sounded from the door.

“Do you realize that this tower has been vacant for the past three decades?” You flinched, turning around at the interruption. Your eyes widened when they landed on the man who had stolen your heart without even a simple word said specifically towards you. You immediately stood up.

“I am truly sorry, my lord. It was not my intent to trespass. I did not mean to offend you.” You rambled, curtsying quickly to show your submissiveness to his will.

“Why the formality?” You kept your eyes downcast. “I’ve requested multiple times for you to call me James.” He continued, “And yet, you do not comply.”

“I know my limits, sir. Now, if I may be excused, I have some chores that I must attend you.”

“So you claim. However, that is not what Alga has told me.” You stiffened. A lord had caught you lying.

“My lord, I did not–” He cut you off with a smile.

“You are a maid, are you not? A servant of the palace?” Your heart shattered at this, you had been a fool to think he would harbor anymore feelings towards you but the type that all other royals held, a feeling of pure hatred to those who served them. “Should you not be more careful of what you leave behind?”

“Yes, sir.” You nodded solemnly, keeping your eyes downcast, suspecting that you had made a mistake in your hurry to get to the tower.

“You dropped this.” Your eyes flickered up to meet your mother’s bracelet dangling from his fingers. You looked down to your bare wrist and then back to the bracelet.

“My lord…how…?”

“I demand that you dance with me.” Your eyes widened.

“I…I do not understand.”

“A dance for the bracelet.”

“My lord…it is not my place.” You protested, even though you needed the piece of mother back, as he took a step towards you. “I cannot.”

“But you must. It is my order.”

At his words, you only gulped. Dancing with a man would be considering his offer at marriage. It would mean he was courting you.

“Sir–”

“James.”

“My lord–”

“James.”

“I cannot…it would mean…”

“Would you consider that to be a bad thing, (Y/N)? If I was courting you?” His smile stayed in place as his eyes met yours.

“You cannot…court me. I am a–”

“Woman of admirable beauty.”

“Servant.”

“The woman who has stolen my heart with a simple glance.”

“A peas–” You gasped when his words registered, “My lord, you must not.”

“I will court whomever I deem to be mine.” You stayed silent.

“Just one dance, my fair maiden. It is all that I ask of you.” He held out a hand and before you could realize what you were doing, you had taken it, your face warming with your brash actions.

Lord James’ smile widened as his other hand dropped to your waist, pulling you closer to him. One of your hands stayed in his as the other rested on his shoulder.

You shouldn’t be doing this. But yet, here you were, in the intimate embrace of your love.

Like the soothing pleasantness of a soft lavender and blue, time passed by without a simple interruption.

After what seemed like hours, he placed the bracelet delicately back on your wrist.

“It’s just as beautiful as you are, miss.” You smiled softly at his words.

Neither of you broke away from each other’s gaze as he softly kissed the back of your hand.

Within moments, you were back in his embrace, your feet aching from dancing so much. You both stopped, your gaze crossing with his as he held you close.

“Will you grant me permission to kiss a fair maiden such as yourself?”

“Yes.” You said quietly as he leaned down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You reciprocated instantly as the kiss progressed, both of your pouring out the long hidden passion that coursed through your veins.

However, it wasn’t rushed, nor a frenzy of lust. It was a promise of more dances to come, and all under the watch of the stunning stars as they shone more vividly at the hope of true love.


	7. All the Things Left Unsaid [Bucky Barnes]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He loved her. A woman of hope, ambition, of joy. There’d been so much that he’d wanted to say to her and so much that he hadn’t. (Bucky Barnes x Reader)
> 
> Warnings: angst, the slightest bit of fluff, death, sad Bucky

Bucky vaguely remembers everything being red.

He sees the cherry red of her painted lips. He sees the promiscuous red of the dress that clings to the frame of the beautiful woman in his arms as he danced with her slowly, a promising smile on his face mirroring her own.

He sees the red fullness of her cheeks as he kissed them softly, holding her close as they swayed to the music of her favorite song. He can hear her singing softly in his ear, a wide grin on her face, her posture relaxed despite her disguise having been for a mission.

He hears the soft, calming red of the singer’s voice. He hears the bloodthirsty red of her controlled voice as she whispered that she had spotted their target. He hears the alarming red in her panicked shout as she warns him to get out of the building.

He feels the sweet, sticky red of her blood as he cradles her frame in his arms, begging for her to keep her eyes open.

He feels the red fade to grey as he sees her eyes darken, a small smile on her face.

He feels the tang of the crimson red now flowing freely from his side from the shrapnel lodged in his upper abdomen.

He hears the angry red of his own cry.

And then, everything is black.

It’s one of the few times that they’d been able to spend some time together, despite the dance having been for an undercover mission. It was the one time they’d both been able to be happy, in the midst of danger. In each other’s arms.

~ ~ ~

When Bucky wakes up, he sees white. The white of the bleached bed sheets. The white of the bland walls. The white brightness of the light shining directly overhead. The white of the clean bandage that was nearly too tight around his abdomen.

He feels numb as he sits up, ignoring the jarring bolts of pain shooting up his side to send his heart racing.

“James?” He hears a soft, familiar voice next to his bedside as a petite woman rushes to his side, gently but firmly pushing him back down. He groans softly at the pain but stays silent otherwise.

“How are you feeling?” The voice asks in a concerned tone. Bucky turns his head to see  _her_ face,  _her_ bright, worried eyes looking into his own. Without thinking, his hand reaches for her cheek as if he were to kiss her like many times before.

He blinks in disbelief, trying to remember every detail of what had happened.

When his eyes open again, he sees the white of Helen Cho’s lab coat. His hand drops back to his side in defeat, his eyes unreadable and dark.

Helen notices the momentary flash of grief in his eyes as his posture slumps.

“James, how are you feeling?” Helen asks once more, her eyes scanning over his face.

Bucky chooses to ignore the question, “She’s gone, isn’t she? I let her die?” His voice doesn’t dare pass above the octave of a whisper as if his world is going to come crashing down if one wrong sound escapes his mouth.

Helen places a gentle hand on his shoulder, offering what little comfort human touch could give at this point to a man such as Bucky.

“It was a bomb, James. She was the closest to the blast. There was nothing anyone could do.”

And for once, Bucky isn’t angry.

He’s broken.

He’s numb.

He’s scared.

He doesn’t have a grip on anything.

He feels like he’s falling through the air, off the train again.

~ ~ ~

Every time that someone calls his name, it sounds far off. Like someone is speaking to him through water. It sounds distorted. It sounds like everyone is trying to stop him from doing something he’ll regret later.

But they’re only doing it for his own good, he realizes. He’s nothing without her. She was his everything.

Was.

That was the word.

Was.

And now, he’s left as half of a whole.

But she can’t be  _gone._ It happened too quickly. One moment she’d been telling him that she had a plan and then the next she’d been lying in a pool of her own blood. One moment, she’d been in his arms, the next she’d been gone.

Bucky’s crying. He doesn’t feel anything but the wetness of his cheeks and the sickening emptiness beside him. And for a short moment, he feels like a young boy from Brooklyn again, crying in his mother’s arms because he’s fallen and broken something.

His heart.

That’s what he’d broken.

It had shattered into millions of pale, colorless,  _lifeless_ shards that cut him every time he moved.

_Ma, how do I fix a broken heart?_

He doesn’t receive a reply. 

~ ~ ~

Running is the one thing that keeps him sane.

It’s been a week since  _that_ day. Bucky never referred to it as the day she died. Because as far as he knows, she’s still by his side. As far as he knows, she’s only dead the moment that he forgets her.

That’s why he runs. He revels in the sting of his calves as he runs repeatedly in circles around the Washington Monument, a location that Steve had shown him.

He likes the constant burn of his lungs as his legs piston on and on for hours on an end.

And he likes the pain. It’s physical. Something he’s used to. Something that he knows how to handle.

It’s better than the constant tugging in his heart that he’s only felt once in his life before.

~ ~ ~

Bucky is usually awake by 4 a.m. Most days, he wakes up covered in a sheen of sweat all because he felt a gentle whisper of her lips on his, her body against his.

There are days when he wakes up screaming into a pillow because if Steve hears, there won’t be a single moment that he’ll be left alone.

He doesn’t have the patience or the need for anybody’s pity.

He’s gotten too much of that so far.

He just wants her back. But every time that his eyes close, he sees her own looking back at him so  _lifelessly._

Bucky just wants the time back. The time when she was still smiling, her laugh igniting long forgotten hope in his heart.

If he’d been in her place. Closer to the blast…shielding her from taking the brunt of the impact.

If only it had been him.

                                                              ~ ~ ~

He’s running again, the thud of the soles of his shoes against the concrete is loud in his ears. He doesn’t see that the sun isn’t even up yet, the cool air embracing him in a dark hold with its suffocating arms.

Bucky stops at a park bench little ways off, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum.

The sun peeks over the horizon, soft yellow light awning over the treetops in an amalgam of bold, happy colors. The breeze begins to blow softly, further messing up his hair as if it weren’t so already done.

He can’t help the upward twitch of his lips.

She always loved sunsets, watching the sun bathe the world in bright colors that made her eyes shine with childish excitement.

She would’ve liked this.

Watching the sunrise, Bucky relaxes against the wooden bench, hands clasped tightly in his lap as his smile fades to nothing. Not a trace of emotion remains on his face.

He sighs softly, tying his hair and leaning back, stretching his exhausted legs.

His eyes shift away from the hopeful colors of the sky, watching as the park come slowly to life.

He sees a hot dog vendor make his stand under a large tree, in preparation and as a temporary refuge from the harsh heat that would strike later in the day.

He sees a man jog by with his German Shepherd. The man’s eyes widen as they catch the glint of the light off Bucky’s metal appendage. He jogs away faster, pulling down his cap. Bucky doesn’t do anything. He’s used to how they look at him.

Bucky leans back, resting his head on top of the back of the bench. As his eyes travel upwards, he sees a bird’s nest. A mother is cooing softly, feeding her chicks as another bird flies by, stopping on the branch and nuzzling the bird that had been feeding the chicks.

He turns his eyes away. He remembers that he’d wanted that with her. A white picket fence, two children, a dog.

He remembers that mere days ago, he’d been teasing her about baby names, causing her face to heat and a small sheepish smile to appear on her face.

But it could never happen. He’s nothing more than a soldier. Soldiers are meant for battle. They are meant to take orders. They are meant to  _follow_ orders.

Bucky harshly jerks his head away so that the birds aren’t in his immediate sight.

Bucky blinks rapidly a few times in an attempt to clear the tears blurring his vision. When that doesn’t work, he wipes the stray tears away quickly with his hand, taking shaky breaths.

_Please, I just want another chance to save you. I just want you back._

He shifts, moving so that the birds aren’t in his immediate sight. All he can think is that  _It should’ve been him._

_It should’ve been his blood on the white marble floor._

_It should’ve been his lifeless eyes that looked to the flickering lights on the ceiling._

_It should’ve been his body on the ground that someone would find later._

_It should’ve been him._

Bucky’s jaw clenches in anger at  _everything_. He’s confused. He’s lost his north star. He’s lost his  _home._

He loses his composure for a moment, his metal arm crushing the malleable wood of the bench effortlessly under its titanium alloy frame. With a sharp growl, he lets go, a chunk of the worn wood now a mess of splinters that snuck into the crevices of the once bloodstained plates of his left arm.

Shaking his hand, he lets the crushed material fall to the ground, his eyes dark and defeated. He blinks away the oncoming tears, his eyes moving to survey the damage he’s done.

It’s not the fact that he’s damaged public property that makes him shatter.

It’s the fact that even without realizing it, he’s almost destroyed the delicate carving of a heart with her initials next to his.

It’s the fact that he’s nearly destroyed the very memory of the first time he’d seen her smile. Her bright eyes.

Bucky feels like everything’s crashing. The sky feels like it’s darkening, the brightness that he’d appreciated just moments before fading into a dull gray. He falls to his knees, paying no heed to the pinpricks of pain that should phase him but don’t. Because he’s never been this  _numb._

His eyes are focused on the outline of the heart, sight following the small indent of the shape and the delicate carving of his initials, J.B.B, made by  _her_ hand. The one he wants to press soft kisses to, earning a delightful giggle from her full lips. The one he wants to hold, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. The one he wants to  _feel_ again, brushing his hair out of his face as she whispered soft promises of a brighter future.

His lips are pressed into a thin line. He’s silent. He doesn’t want to speak again.

Because when he had the chance, there were so many things that he hadn’t said to her. So many things that he wanted to say. And now can’t say them anymore. That he doesn’t  _want_ to say anymore.

She won’t hear him. She won’t  _be there_  to hear him.


	8. Safe [Bucky Barnes]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another nightmare, another hopeless day. He feels helpless, broken. Will he ever be safe?
> 
> Warnings: fluff

Sitting on the balcony with both metal and flesh hands clasped in his lap, Bucky’s breaths came in shallow gasps, tears streaming freely down his face mirroring the raindrops dripping down the metal frame of the balcony.

He harshly wiped away the tears, bottom lip still quivering and hands still shaking from the images storming through his mind, thundering louder than the thunder outside and darker than the charcoal clouds that had gathered early that morning.

Shaking his head, a humorless laugh left Bucky’s lips. This was what his life had become, lifeless days and sleepless nights. With a shuddering sigh, he shifted, making himself as comfortable as he could against the cold wall he was leaning against. His head rested against the wall, his eyes closing in an attempt to relax. But the moment that his eyes close, he forces them open because all he can see is a crimson stain that looks terrifyingly like blood spreading over his fingers, seeping into the metal plates of the Vibranium appendage.

He stiffens against the wall, back straightening immediately as if he was once again being called on by a Lieutenant. As if he was once again the soldier he didn’t want to be any longer.

Bucky’s flesh hand runs shakily through his hair, “Goddamnit.”

His voice is rough, raw with emotion from the many tears he’s shed because he remembers  _every single person_ that he’s killed. Because as much as Steve reassures him that it wasn’t his fault, it was still by his hands that they had perished. Men with families. Women left widows. Children left fatherless.

A low, defeated sigh leaves his lips.

“Bucky?” A soft, familiar and  _concerned_ voice calls out, a tentative knock following on the glass door leading out to the balcony. He gulps.

The door opens and wordlessly, you step out.

“Hey, whatcha you doing out here?” You place a gentle hand on his shoulder, not receiving a reaction from him for a short moment.

Bucky turns his head fractionally to meet your eyes and you can see that he’s been crying. Hell, you don’t even need to look at his eyes to tell considering the fresh tears still sliding down his face.

Gently, you cup his cheek, thumb wiping away the stray tears. He doesn’t move, his eyes bluntly refusing to move from your face.

“Hey, it’s raining, come inside.”

He doesn’t reply.

“Buck, come on.” Seemingly an eternity later, he gets up but he doesn’t move from where he’s standing, towering over your frame. Your hand dropped from his cheek to take his metal hand in yours, thumb brushing over his knuckles.

You lead him inside, sitting him down on the couch.

“I’ll be right back, alright?” Your voice is barely higher than a whisper out of fear of scaring him any more than he already seemed.

“Please don’t go.” The three words are enough to make you freeze in your tracks.

“Nightmares?” You ask, brushing a stray strand of hair out of his face. He only nods, unable to say anything.

“Same thing again?” He nods again.

“I saw them all.” His voice is breathless, cracking under the strain of holding his tears back, “I heard them screaming. I saw them die. And I did it. It was all me and I… I-”

“Bucky, I need you to calm down.” You turn to face him again, taking his face in your hands and looking into his eyes.

“I remember all of them. I remember killing all of them.” His eyes are flitting frantically around the room, voice panicked. And it scares you because he’s  _Bucky,_ he’s always sure about what he’s doing. He’s always anchored to something and yet, now he seems as if he’s floating away.

“Bucky. Look at me.” His eyes snap to yours in an instant.

“I remember all of them.”

“Buck.” You press a soft kiss to his forehead.

“It wasn’t you.”

“It was, (Y/N). I was the one who did it.”

“But it wasn’t  _you_.” He pauses. And before you can react, he’s hugging you tightly, face buried in your neck, soft whispers of ‘I’m sorry’

You don’t say anything because you don’t need to. You just hold him. Like most nights.

After  _seconds, minutes, hours_  later, you don’t care that you’re still cradling his much larger frame against yours because  _time_ doesn’t matter. Not as long as he understands that he’s far away from any danger. That he’s safe.

Because as far as you know, there’s nowhere safer than the same place as people who care about you.

And you care about.


	9. Mercy [Bucky Barnes]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has secrets. The only question that differs is who shows mercy when those secrets tear at crumbling walls built to contain them?
> 
> Warnings: was originally the first part of a series (now discontinued), angst, suspense, graphic death, psychological damage

_“Hesitance is a vice.” A cold voice echoed, “Focus.”_

_The gun shook in your hand as you finger stopped on the trigger. The barrel pointed straight towards your brother’s temple, your hand barely stable under the weight of both Alexander Pierce and your brother’s gazes on you._

_Shakily, you met your brother’s gaze. His lips moved, “Do it. Please. For me.” He begged, his voice ragged. You shook your head, a soft sob leaving your lips._

_A hand came down on your cheek, causing you to flinch and drop the gun. Pierce’s face came into view, his lips pressed together into a thin line._

_“Weak.” He snarled, “Useless. A fool.” His heel made contact with the butt of the gun as he kicked it over to your brother._

_“Shoot.” He ordered, not an ounce of remorse in his voice as he gave the order that you had refused to follow mere moments ago._

_Without hesitating, your brother picked up the gun, pointing it at you. You offered him a small, reassuring smile despite the pounding of a thousand stallions in your heart._

_Your brother only shook his head as he checked the bullets, watching Pierce as he circled the two of you._

_“You or (Y/N).” He said, his voice quiet yet dangerous, like that of a lake at night, its depths unknown._

_“I’m sorry.” He muttered, the gun pressed against the soft skin under his chin._

_“No!” You screamed, lunging towards him as the gun went off, a compressed capsule of metal shooting out the top. He fell to the ground, his eyes unfocused and blood covering his uniform._

_You scrambled to his side, immediately cradling his broken form in your arms._

_“No…please…” You cried, your tears falling on his face._

_A loud, booming laugh echoed through the room. Feeling a surge of red anger pass your thoughts, you shakily picked up the gun, aiming it towards Alexander Pierce’s head. He only laughed as you pressed the trigger._

_Nothing happened, a useless metal canister clutched tightly in your hand. Your eyes widened in fear._

_“Too late.”_

You sat up quickly off the bed, biting back a loud scream that you’d felt crawling up your throat. You settled for whimpering in fear, taking slow, deep breaths, trying to calm your shaking body. Wiping the tears that threatened to overflow, you got off the bed quickly, rushing to the bathroom.

Your hands quaked, as you splashed cold water on your face. You looked in the mirror to see your frazzled form, your eyes wild and your chest heaving. You sighed in defeat, “Fuck.”

Eventually, you had calmed down enough, lying back down on your bed, your eyes focused on the ceiling as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Reaching under your bed, you found your hidden bottle of Jack Daniels. Sitting up, you took a long gulp, the alcohol burning like wildfire as it went down your throat.

You set the bottle back down, tears in your eyes. This time, you did nothing to hold them back as they came in a flood.

A failed mission had led to nightmares again. Exhaustion was clear in your features as you slumped down on the bed once more, posture slumped and hands still shaking harshly.

Eventually, you fell into a fitful sleep again, tossing and turning in the crumpled covers, whimpering  _please_ over and over again.

~ ~ ~

James Buchanan Barnes.

That’s what his name was. The man in the glass case labeled with ‘D23’ in bold, black letters, wearing a maroon Henley.

Watching the screens in the surveillance room, you tapped your fingers mindlessly against the edge of the table, not a word leaving your lips.

“You okay?” Steve’s voice rang out, breaking the tense silence. You stopped immediately, spine-stiffening fractionally out of habit.

“Always am. What’s up?”

“You haven’t said a single word to me or Sam.”

“There isn’t anything to say. ” You replied, not caring to elaborate on the topic. Just as Steve had opened his mouth to say something, Sharon came into the room, causing him to cut off of whatever was supposed to come out of his mouth.

“The receipt for your gear.” She said simply, handing Sam a slip of paper.

“Bird costume? Come on.”

“I didn’t write it.”

You cracked a small smile, unable to hold back at Sam’s comment. It faded the moment that you noticed that Steve still hadn’t relaxed. Sharon, having noticed his stiff posture and clenched jaw, leaned forward and turned the audio on to the interrogation room.

“I’m not here to judge you. I just want to ask you a few questions. Do you know where you are, James? I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me, James.” Steve turned back towards Sharon, offering her a short nod.

“My name is Bucky.”

You kept your eyes glued to the screen, watching the doctor interview James. With the distance, you were from the screen and the lighting of the room, you couldn’t clearly see his face but you could only confirm with a rising suspicion that you  _knew_ this James, this 'Bucky’.

The last thing you saw was Bucky’s piercing blue eyes look at the camera, something dark clouding his gaze.

It was then that the lights flickered throughout the entire building, the cameras in the interrogation room going out and thus leaving the four of you to stare at a black screen.

It was also then that it clicked. 

Bucky had been the one to drag you out of the room after your brother’s incident with Pierce’s mocking laughter bouncing off the walls of the enclosed room.

It was Bucky that had made you into a monster.

It was Bucky that had trained to be a killer.

_It was Bucky that had helped you escape Hydra._


	10. The Girl in the Flower Dress [Bucky Barnes]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s this girl. There’s this guy. The guy’s in love with the girl but he’s too big of an idiot to even talk to her. (Bucky Barnes x Reader)
> 
> Warnings: my trash mouth, angst

The first time that he sees her, it’s raining. Well, it’s a downpour. Same thing really. Either way, he stands frozen in the street, stark blue eyes catching sight of the pattern of her flowing dress, the bright flowers on the cloth a heavy contrast to the dark, looming clouds above.

She seems to be in a rush (as most people would be when the heavens themselves try to drown all of the human civilization.) Her legs work frantically, rushing to carry her to her undisclosed location. She’s stepped in four puddles already, her hair is streaming down her face in a wet mess, her frantic eyes scanning her surroundings for some sort of shelter that could keep her from getting wetter than she already was, the dress clinging to her frame.

Bucky’s an idiot. At least that’s what Sam would say after seeing him stand out in the rain, freezing his dumb ass off, most definitely in danger of catching a cold.

Then again, of course, Bucky wouldn’t pay attention to Sam’s bitch ass, because despite the cold rain seeping into his bones, he swears that he’s never felt warmer.

And he stares. No, he revels in the simple flush of her cheeks, bottom lip held hostage between her teeth.

He wants to talk to her. He really does. But he can’t because his clothes may be wet but his mouth is really fucking dry.

He’s frozen (not cryogenic freezing but it’s close enough because he’s a fool infatuated, perhaps even in love…except for the fact that he doesn’t believe in love at first sight.)

Bucky blinks once, trying to clear his head because he can’t quite grasp the fact that  _holy shit there’s an angel right across the street_.

But she’s not there anymore. It’s almost as if she’s disappeared.

She has. Into a large office building to hide from the downpour. But he doesn’t realize that because all he has in mind at the moment is trying to find her again. He’s looking around frantically, so fucking frantically but he can’t… he can’t find her.

He’s devasted (and also an idiot despite having the skills to at least think of the fact that maybe, just maybe, she’s stepped into a shelter from the rain. Like normal people, not lovestruck fools, would normally do.)

~~~

The second time that he sees her, she’s wearing a light blue blouse, the material flowing the wind.

_Shit, the wind’s blowing. And she’s smiling so fucking brightly, trying to pull back her hair against the air tugging it out of her makeshift bun on top of her head._

_God, I wanna be the one brushing that hair out of her face._

_God, I wanna kiss those lips._

Of course, he doesn’t. How’s he going to kiss a girl that he ‘doesn’t have the balls’ to talk to?

He stares again, like the complete, utter fool he is, taking in the stark beauty of this woman, eyes drinking in every perfection. That of her crooked and carefree smile. The gentle flush of her cheeks.

Sam’s right. He’s a bitch. And he’s definitely in too fucking deep.

But really, Sam has no right to say that because  _she’s so beautiful_. (He won’t admit it but he doesn’t think that you’re real and that he’s completely imagining you. Sam claims that his head is too small to think of anything besides how to get his hair out of his 'stupid face’.)

Lost in thought, he loses sight of her again, mentally scolding himself.

But this time, he actually crosses the street, figuring that his chances of seeing her again would be better if he were looking from a different vantage point.

Again, he’s wrong. He can’t find her, no matter how hard he looks, he doesn’t catch sight of the same shade of blue fluttering in the wind. He sees the navy of someone’s scarf. The teal of someone’s purse but not the sky blue of her shirt.

Bucky can almost hear Steve yelling “Language” with every single swear that he’s thinking to describe the situation of losing sight of her again.

He can also hear Sam laughing.

~~~

The third time he sees her, she’s wearing one of those crooked smiles of hers, lips tugged upwards to slow the smallest sliver of her teeth. Her eyes are brighter than he’s ever seen them, rivaling the very shine of the stars.

She’s happy.

And her arms are around someone, her frame pressed to a much larger one.

She’s leaning in, closer, closer…he’s unable to breathe. He’s unable to fucking think. His heart is breaking, breaking,  _breaking_.

She’s kissing the man. Her hands are tangling in his hair. He’s kissing her back and his arms are around her waist, pulling her ever closer. He’s smiling. She’s smiling. They’re laughing.

She’s wearing the beautiful flowered dress.

She’s pulling away, he’s taking her hand. And they’re walking, both with a lightheartedness in their steps. They’re smiling, they’re happy, they’re in love.

And he too is in love. But Bucky Barnes is a fool in love.

He should’ve talked to the girl in the flower dress.

He hadn’t.

Perhaps, that was his mistake.


	11. Answers [Bucky Barnes]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some questions don’t need to be asked. 
> 
> Warnings: fluff

Some questions are better left unasked because it’s often clear that you won’t always like the answer you’ll receive.

So you don’t ask and no one answers, the words left as fragments of deep thought trapped at the end of your tongue. They stay there, festering in your mind with boiling curiosity,  _waiting waiting waiting_ to be said.

Still, the question remains; unasked and unanswered.

But it still exists it’s corporeal form,  _there_ in the corner of your mind.

_Do you love me, James?_

Of course, the words never leave your lips and a reply never leaves his. But he’s not to blame because he lives his life struggling with his own demons, too unaware of the storm that’s brewing within.

So, when you’re held close at night, hearing soft promises whispered but never reaching your ears, you don’t ask.

Not when he kisses you, pink lips pressing to your own with utter care and gentleness, calloused hands cupping your jaw, brushing stray strands of hair back into place. You don’t ask.

When he smiles at you, all crooked teeth and hidden jokes, innocent blue eyes shining with the sort of  _childish_  mischief that is so utterly and completely  _him_ , the one that always brings an unbidden smile to your lips, you don’t ask.

When he’s up at night, plagued by those very demons he flees from day after day, slipping under the covers by your side, reassuring himself that you’re  _real_ and you’re  _there._ You don’t ask.

Or when he’s talking, hands moving almost comically as he tries to explain a story of his childhood, eyes glimmering with long-lost hope, you don’t ask.

When he’s got his hand in yours, thumb rubbing circles on the back of your hand absentmindedly, you don’t ask.

When he’s got you trapped against the couch, head in your lap, refusing to let you move, a smirk playing at his lips as your own amused eyes look down at him, you don’t ask.

When he’s looking at you like you’re his  _everything_  despite the weight of the entire world on his shoulders,  _you don’t ask_.

Because that’s the funny thing about some questions.

They don’t need to be asked.

But they’ll still be answered.

_Yes, I love you._


	12. Their Story [Bucky Barnes]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when an oh-so-talented, charmingly bohemian, tragically impoverished protege falls in love with a courtesan? (Bucky Barnes x Reader Moulin Rouge AU)
> 
> Warnings: angst, death

**_Montmartre_ **

The  _click click click_ of the man’s fingers upon the keys of the typewriter fill the air with a sense of melancholy.

This man, he does not remember  _happiness_. Only  _emptiness._

His love’s lips had been cold when he’d last kissed her. Cold. So cold. The taste of blood filling his mouth with its iron tang. Her eyes had been so lifeless, staring into empty chaos.

He remembered pleading for her to come back to him. She hadn’t listened.

And now he sits, a lonely man in a lonely land, telling a story of a lost love and a lost hope that no one will hear.

This my friends is the story of James Buchanan Barnes. The man who’s one aspiration is to teach a lesson of love:

_The greatest thing_ __  
_You’ll ever learn_ __  
_Is just to love_ __  
_And be loved._ _  
_ _…in return_

~~~

_**The Moulin Rouge** _

The lights are bright, the atmosphere boisterous with the men and women dancing, hips moving, hands gliding and gazes lingering. An aura of allure surrounds the crowd,  _pulling, pulling, pulling._

James stands lost in the crowd, trying to find his way through the maze of moving figures and insistent urges.

The name Tony Stark was one that was known well, too well in the underground business of the nightclub. He, after all, was the lord of the kingdom of pleasure, resided by the rich folk who played with the beautiful demons of hell in the glistening moonlight. A palace of sin, built upon the fame of The Sparkling Diamond.

She was a courtesan. One of exquisite beauty and a heart full of love. And as fate would have it, she was to be the thief of James’s heart and the keeper of his soul. Her promiscuous smile rivaled the brightness of the stars against the black velvet sky, filling men’s greed-tainted hearts with lust.

He was to meet her. Lay his eyes on the goddess herself. Fill her ears with his music. And yet, she was nowhere to be found, the vest he’d borrowed from Steven clinging to the planes of his body as he found himself moving with the crowd.

Sam’s voice pulls him out of his daze, his hands on his arm pulling the man towards a secluded corner of the nightclub. James doesn’t resist the pull.

His words, whispered, barely manage to reach his ears, “We’ve evaded Stark!” With the sudden darkness filling James’s senses, the words don’t register.

“It’s her.” No further clarification is needed. One glance at her and the realization is immediate. The Sparkling Diamond.

Her voice fills the man with this…this  _want._ It’s unexplainable. But it’s there.

The following words that leave Sam’s mouth come as a shock, forcing James’s eyes to tear away from the woman, “After her number, I’ve arranged a meeting. You and (Y/N). Alone.”

“Alone?” He’s breathless. And he’s sure he’s never felt that way before.

“Totally alone.”

If only the truth was known.

That night, the mademoiselle was to meet Stark’s investor. The Duke.

So when the woman herself comes gliding up to James, a promising smile on her lips and a mischievous glint in her eyes, it comes as a surprise both to Stark and the Duke.

“I believe you were expecting me.”

~~~

There is an air of allure in the room, arousing  _this feeling inside_. He looks out onto the city, memorizing each light, each star, each sound from below as he waits for the courtesan to arrive. Patience has always been one of James’s virtues. He’d waited to come to Paris long enough, he’d waited for his father’s reprimands to fade from his mind. And now, he waited for  _her._

Sam and his cronies looked up at the balcony where the man stood, whispering words about how lucky James was to have earned a night with the woman after one “dance.”

The Diamond enters the room, the door closing behind her with a gentle click of the lock. James is quick to turn on his heel, eyes widening as he takes in the figure of the woman, glazing over the perfection that she embodied.

His mouth opens as if he were to say something. Nothing comes out.

“A little supper?” The woman offers, “Maybe some champagne?”

“I…I’d much rather we just got it over and done with.” The bottle in the woman’s hand gets set down more harshly than it should. James flinches slightly, sudden worry filling him at having displeased the woman.

“Very well.” She walks over to the bed, lying down as she gives James a view of her body, the material of her sheer dress clinging to her in all the right places, capturing his eyes in her gentle curves, “Come down here.” Her hand glides over the silky sheets.

“I’d prefer we do it standing.”

The words catch her off guard as she goes to stand. He’s protesting immediately, “No..no… sometimes…it’s…it’s quite long and I’d like you to be comfortable.” He’s rambling at this point, the memory of the city fading from his mind, thoughts filled with nothing but  _her._

He begins shakily, “The sky–” The Diamond’s soft sigh fills the air, her hands sliding up her body, his eyes snapping to her.

“The sky…the bluebirds..” The sentences gets cut off once more, a soft, barely audible moan leaving her lips. Of course, he hears her. And falters, wide eyes taking in her every curve, every detail.  _Everything_ was so damned beautiful about her. The curve of her back, the gentle slope of her neck, the fullness of her lips. He finds himself unable to look away, much less even continue his poem.

“Is everything alright?”

He stands frozen, eyes not moving from her at her words, “Yes! Sometimes…it…it takes a while for –”

“Oh!” The syllable cuts him off, his face growing hot under her gaze, hooded eyes scanning his body.

“-inspiration to come.” She’s climbing off the bed now, walking towards him, a sway in her hips.

“Let Mummy help then, hm?” There’s passion in every single open of her movements, hands sliding slowly up his body. James stands completely frozen, unable to believe, with every fiber of his being, that this is happening. She leaning in, then, lips making contact with the skin of his jaw just as her hand brushes over his crotch.

He gasps, all air leaving his lungs in a split second.

_Focus._

The word repeats in his head endlessly. But he’s not sure what to focus on. Her touch? The curve of her luscious, red-painted lips? The smoothness of her delicate hand? The mischievous glint in those wide, beautiful eyes of hers?

_The poem, you idiot. Focus on the poem._

“Does that inspire you?” She purrs, drawing every syllable out in a delectable promise.

He’s trying with everything he’s got in him, but he really doesn’t have the time to. The next thing his mind  _barely_ manages to register is the fact that he’s sprawled on the silk sheets of the bed, the woman hovering over him with a devilishly appealing smirk on her lips.

His mouth goes completely dry, lips parting to protest her actions as she cuts him off, “Let’s make love.”

The words leave him shakily, eyes swirling with unasked questions and clear doubt, “Make love?”

James could have sworn that Sam had arranged for him to share his works with the beautiful Diamond, not…not to…. _make love._

The phrase catches him completely off guard, he’s left shocked as her eager, nimble fingers begin working the buttons of his shirt loose, hands sliding over the exposed skin.

“You want to, don’t you?” He gulps, because  _yes he wants to._ But he can’t. It’s not what he’s here for and…it’s not….he can’t seem to find enough reasons to say  _no this is not what I want._

“I came here to–” He’s forcing the words out, unable to wrestle any control of his mind from his wandering thoughts of (Y/N).

“No, no. Don’t lie.” Her smile widens, pupils dilated with unadulterated lust, “Can’t you feel the poetry?”

“What?” It’s pathetic really, how weakly the word leaves his mouth, breath catching in his throat at the gentlest brush of her lips against his bare collarbone.

“Oh, come on.  _Feel it._ ” A taunt. That’s all it sounds like. Full of a challenge for him to make a move, her every movement inviting.

Her hands shift downwards to his belt, experience aiding her in undoing it within mere seconds. Her bottom lip held hostage between her teeth, she smirks, “ _Ah, yes._ I need your  _poetry_ now.”

The words leave her mouth breathily as if she’s already received gratification, despite his lack of action, no sign of his arousal made known save for the straining erection he struggles with in the moment.

He swears he’s never moved quicker, shifting out from under the eager woman, “Alright!”

James risks a glance back at her, taking in the sight of her flowing hair, the still-sane writer in him not hesitating in comparing her to an angel.

“It’s a little bit funny…”

“What?” There’s clear confusion etched in her every ethereal detail.

“T-this…feeling inside…” He’s not sure why he’s stumbling over the words, he’s practiced them hundreds of times over and over, trying to find the perfect stress and cadence of each and every syllable.

A gasp leaves her mouth, the short burst of air leaving her lips more erotic that it should be, “Yes,  _naughty words._ “

Her hands are moving over her body again, testing every facet of James’ self-control. God, she’s  _beautiful,_ every movement of hers exuding promises of fulfilled pleasure.

“Is this– Is this okay? Is this what you want? “ The words come out shakier than he intends, eyes not daring leave her as she continues, moving over the silk sheets of the bed as if he were pleasuring her with the mere sound of his sonorous voice, each syllable flowing like honey over her smooth skin.

“Yes,  _of course._ Naughty boy!”

_Breathe James. Breathe, you idiot._

Her comments, not actions are enough to keep him going, with the exception of his struggle, choked words not daring to leave his lips after the initial mishap.

James’s words come to a dead standstill at the low moan that leaves the woman’s lips, ringing through the tense air, sending a spark of something not entirely unpleasant through him. He stands in the middle of the room, jaw unhinged as he watches the woman’s continuing movements, her hand slipping between her legs, gliding over the silky material of her black gown.

It takes the man a good minute to find his bearings, his awkward cough punctuating her sounds as his mouth opens, song spilling through the confines of his tongue, “My gift is my song….”

Perhaps, she’s never heard a song….or perhaps she’s never heard a song sung  _for her._

She freezes on the bed, her attention focusing on the music spilling from his lips. Her movements are hesitant as she climbs off the bed, walking over to him with slow steps, her eyes never leaving his own, filled with a sort of  _childish_ amazement.

“Oh. I can’t believe it. I’m in love.” The proclamation leaves her lips breathlessly, “I’m in love with a young, handsome, talented duke.”

“Duke?”

“Yes, of course. Not that the title matters.” Her tone is hopeful, a lingering touch of her dreams tainting each syllable.

“I’m not a duke.” Her eyes lost only a fraction of their brightness at his confession, “I’m a writer.” Her lips are inches from his own, his words falling on their softness. She’s pulling away within seconds, her eyes wide at the fact that she  _has_ fallen in love…but  _not_ with who she was  _meant_  to fall in love with.

“A writer?” Her voice asks for confirmation with the slightest burden.

“Yes..uh..Sam, he…”

“Oh no. Sam? You don’t happen to be another one of his oh-so-talented, charmingly bohemian, tragically impoverished proteges?”

It seems to be falling apart, everything that he’s done thus far, wonder fading from her eyes quickly, no remnant of it remaining.

But he doesn’t lie, “You..you might say that. Yes.”

“I’m going to  _kill_ the bastard!” (Y/N) is rushing to the door, the words leaving her peaceful lips with a promise of devastating war. He rushes to stop her as the door swings open, her hand gripping the doorknob tightly. She doesn’t need to be stopped.

Within seconds, she’s slammed the door shut, her eyes wide with panic. She couldn’t have been mistaken, no. It was the same sandy blond hair, easy-coming smirk, the same slim build with all strength hidden beneath the lithe muscle.

The Duke.

“ _Hide._ ” The word is quite literally thrown at James in the form of a pillow hitting his head seconds later. He’s forced to duck down, hiding behind a table. Peeking out from the corner of the table he sees her adjust her dress, his lips parting as he catches sight of her pull down the dress a little to expose her chest.

She picks up a blanket from the bed, rushing about the room before haphazardly throwing it on the table in an attempt to cover the man she had welcomed mistakenly into her chambers.

The last words that he hears as the blanket settles over his head are, “ _I want the Diamond._ ”

He doesn’t see the way that (Y/N) stiffens. Nor the way that she forces the revulsion from her gaze, adopting instead, a look of fabricated love she’s hoodwinked so many men with.

~~~

Hesitance. It filled his every nerve.

James was sure that the Diamond herself had taken an interest in hi—his poetry. And yet, with the moans that he’d heard, eyes shut tightly, all confidence had ebbed into  _nothing._

Little did he know, the sounds of pleasure were as counterfeited as the love she felt for this—  _this intruder._

The Duke hadn’t caught on, his continuing thrusts into her for himself and none other. She hadn’t made a sound other than the false ones of mutual enjoyment, leaving the man in a world of his own imagination, one where he knew how to pleasure a woman.

When the Duke had left the next morning, a sated smile plastered on his greasy lips, smeared with her lipstick, James had still been there, finding himself still unable to move. Sam hadn’t come for him, perhaps having fallen under the impression that the lie of him being the true Duke had been ingrained deep enough in (Y/N)’s mind that she wouldn’t question his true motives for being in her chambers.

She didn’t notice his presence either, her lengthy legs aiding her in exiting as if nothing had occurred the night before, seeming to have forgotten the events completely.

(Y/N)’s thoughts don’t fade from the man who’d sung a song  _for her._ The cadence of his syllables thrum in her blood, allowing her to stand straighter, with true confidence in the fact that–that someone loved  _her._ A courtesan. A prostitute.  _A_   _woman._

The smile doesn’t fade from her lips, eyes bright at the confirmation. She’s filled with a  _vibrance._ One that she didn’t have before, men fawning over her body and floundering for a simple, sultry smile thrown carelessly their way.

The smile doesn’t fade because  _for once…for once_ she’s questioning everything that Stark has told her. The lie that a prostitute would never find love. The lie that no man would dare set his eyes on  _his_ duckling if he hadn’t the means to do so. The lie that she was nothing more than property.

Because for once, she lets herself fall.

Through cold water, it’s frigidness seeping into the confines of the iron bars that she’s kept herself caged in, rusting the metal until it takes nothing more than the smallest tug for the chains to crumble away.

She lets herself fall.

Into searing heat, the sun beating down endlessly on her flawless skin, sweat sliding over its smoothness, dripping on to dry ground, washing away the image of what she had fooled herself to be.

She lets herself fall.

In love with the  _oh-so-talented, charmingly bohemian, tragically impoverished_  protege that had sung to  _her._

She lets herself fall.

In love with James.

But when the Duke’s guard finds James, curled in the corner of the Duke’s  _mistress_ ’s room, in  _her_ room _,_ she doesn’t know, ignorantly blissful in her reverie.

James doesn’t struggle as he’s dragged out, knees hitting the stone of the floor with a painful  _clunk._ He doesn’t notice the fact that he’s being disgraced, forced to say on his knees for the entire theater to gaze upon, a jester in a court of royals.

None of their taunts reach his ears, a sense of betrayal creeps up on him, its fingers digging into the soft flesh of his heart. Tugging at the strings painfully…

She enters, not an ounce of her beauty lost in the glow of the sun’s rays filtering through the roof of the theater. The smile falters at seeing him on his knees.

She’s rushing through the crowd gathered around the disgraced man, trying to hold back the enraged Duke from filtering his rage onto  _her love._

The pistol is in his hand. Lost in their own thoughts, no one notices the weapon in the Duke’s hand. No one but (Y/N).

It’s aimed towards him. James isn’t looking up from the ground, still seeming unable to register any of the slurs thrown carelessly at him.

Hearing the click as the weapon is cocked, he mistakes it for nothing more than the heel of a boot walking towards him, bracing for the blow he knows that is coming from  _whoever._

The blow he does receive is one completely different from what he expects. The explosion of a pistol going off reaches his ears at the same time that (Y/N)’s body knocks him over, his arms flying to catch her body.

A short shout of surprise leaves his mouth but there’s no reply from the woman in his arms at the harsh, painful landing. Almost as if she doesn’t feel the same pain of his elbows hitting the floor like him.

She doesn’t. She’s occupied at the moment, feeling a completely  _different_ sort of pain, weakly slipping off of him with a delicate hand pressed to her abdomen, wild eyes scanning the room as  _pain_ fills every fiber of her being.

She tries to stand up, forcing herself to walk. It doesn’t work. Tumbling back, she finds herself secure  _for once in her life._ Secure in the arms of someone  _she loves_  and someone that  _loves her_.

His lips are moving but the words don’t reach her ears, the pounding of rushing too loud for any words to be heard through.

She has a smile on her lips.

He’s talking to her. A penniless writer is talking to a rich courtesan. A man is talking to a woman. A lover is talking to lover. And they’re undisturbed.

The Duke stands frozen for a moment before snapping into sudden movement. No one stops his unbidden retreat, legs working quickly to drive him away from the scene of the crime.

James swears that he’s never been more panicked in his life. Half of it is a lie, the other half-truth. He’d only felt this panicked when he’d first laid his eyes on her, thoughts not daring to stray from her exquisite beauty.

The brightness begins to fade from her eyes, the smile, however, not. He hears himself repeating her name in a whispered prayer to gods he’d shunned. It’s effortless, the way that her name rolls off his tongue. As if he’s practiced saying it – no–  _singing_ it for centuries.

She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t hear him sing another time, a soft puff of air leaving her lips as a drop of blood lingers at the corner of her lips. His body reacts first as he forces himself to wipe it harshly away, unable to gaze upon such fragile innocence being tainted with the dark stain of spilled blood.

He can barely hear himself screaming for her to wake up.  _He can’t lose her now._

In the moment, nothing but the finality of her  _death_ fills his senses. No, she can’t be dead. Not like this. He’s kissing her before he knows it, warm lips pressing against her own.

It has to work, doesn’t it?  _It has to._

He’s the prince and she’s the sleeping beauty.

_It has to work._

The iron tang of her blood fills his mouth.

_It didn’t work._


	13. Storm [Bucky Barnes]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Storms do, after all, leave clear skies to marvel at. (Bucky Barnes x Reader)
> 
> Warnings: fluff

It’s not a lie that James Buchanan Barnes has  _lost_. Maybe, it comes easy to him…more so than to others. But it’s a simple glance at his face that tells a different tale.

There’s a sadness in his cobalt eyes. It’s a sadness akin to that of a lost toy in the ravages of war. It’s a terribly nostalgic reminder of the demons that tear at the walls he’s built around himself, for his own safety.

And the dullness of them as he awakens from yet another nightmare? It’s similar, _too similar_  to that of a child’s fading smile.

Maybe it’s the emotion that he imprisons within himself that make him a storm. One hovering  _just_ out of view, ready to strike before you’re able to find a shelter that will hold.

But there are days where the skies aren’t as dark. Thunder not as loud. Lightning not as jarring.

There are days when the sun does shine. There are days when there’s a light in those cloudy eyes of his. There are days when James Buchanan Barnes does  _smile._

It’s imperfect, his smile. All crooked teeth and crinkled eyes. But it’s  _beautiful._

The sun does shine through the clouds. And it’s these days that he finds himself almost  _unable_ not to smile.

Perhaps it’s the way that you stumble, struggling to keep pace with his steps that brings that sunlit bow to life on his lips, or perhaps it’s the way that your hands tighten on his, a threat of “If I fall, I’m bringing you down with me” that makes him laugh.

Sure, it’s been  _years_ since his feet have traced the same path of the dance. It’s been years since he’s been able to trust himself enough to touch you, hell,  _hold_ you with the metal weapon that he calls an arm.

He finds himself forcing his thoughts away from the horrors that await him.  _Focus._

And yeah, he’s focusing. On the playful swears leaving your lips, your foot bumping into his for the fifth time in  _ten fucking minutes._ He’s focusing on the soft huffs of frustration, the feel of your hand tightening around his as you struggle to keep your balance. He’s focusing and he’s so damned engrossed.

“Would it help if you stood on my feet?” The question is one that catches you completely off guard because-

_Fuck, are you really that bad at dancing?_

Your reply leaves your lips quicker than intended, “Buck, maybe you should find yourself a new dance partner.”

His refusal is immediate, “Someone new isn’t  _you._ ” And the words, they bring a smile to your lips. The brightness of it is all the confirmation that he needs that  _for once,_ he’s doing something  _right._

He’s pretty damned proud because the dark clouds overhead are scattering. And the sun is  _shining._

You’re still hesitant in your movements as you step onto his feet, trying to balance yourself, his arm wrapping immediately around your waist to pull you flush against his body, causing more laughter to spill from your lips.

He begins slowly, smiling down at you as he navigates around the kitchen, the silence of the twinkling stars the only music necessary.

In the moonlight, the darkness of James Buchanan Barnes’s eyes fades, nothing but his imperfectly perfect smile remaining on his lips. And it’s bright. And beautiful. And  _happy._

Storms do, after all, leave clear skies to marvel at. 


	14. Roses [Bucky Barnes]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it possible to win a girl's heart in a day? (Bucky Barnes x Reader Flowershop AU)
> 
> Warnings: fluff, angst, kissing, i forgot how to words 1/4 of the way through this

He’s got slicked-back hair, and all the swagger of a king who’s too cocksure of himself when he walks through the door of your flower shop, with bright blue eyes rivaling the sea’s tide and a heart-stopping smile, dressed in an army uniform, an aura of triumph surrounding him.

(You learn later that his name is James and he’s being shipped out in a week.)

“Do ya think you got anythin’ to win a girl’s heart in a day, darlin’?”

“You can’t win a girl’s heart in a day, sir.” You don’t expect yourself to slip up and retort that easily, giving no respect to a _customer._ Your grandmother’s definitely rolling in her grave.

He laughs, the sound filling the air, pleasant to the ears, successfully making the blood rush to your cheeks, “You make it sound like a challenge.”

(It is.)

You scoff, “My job is not to challenge my customers.” He smirks, eyes holding you captive with something akin to curiosity in them.

“Is your job to argue with them then?”

“No, it’s to make sure their ego doesn’t destroy my shop.” It’s said with clear sarcasm in the words. He catches on, the corner of his lips lifting slightly in a smirk, “How can I help you?”

“Say that I’ve been seeing this  _beautiful_ dame, been eyein’ her all week - “

“Seeing a woman isn’t the same as scoping her out.” You interrupt, “Sir.”

He raises an eyebrow at the comment, but doesn’t hesitate to continue his story of sorts, “And I want to take her out. Maybe on a picnic in Central Park - “

“Not all women like picnics and romantic walks where you try and kiss them in the rain.” He scoffs.

“One of those rides on Coney Island, then?” He asks, the smirk faltering. With his tone, he earns the smallest bit of sympathy from you. It’s almost as if he’s actually  _trying_ with this woman, whoever she was. You decide to hear him out.

“Sure, sure. What else do you know about your girl?”

“She ain’t my girl. Not yet.” He corrects, holding your gaze. It sends a spark of  _something_ through you. You’re not sure what it is but you don’t like it.

(It’s a feeling you’ve never felt before. )

You clear your throat, averting your gaze, pretending to look around the shop for something that he would like.

“Don’t really know much more.” He admits with shame, “She’s damn stubborn, though.”

“Roses, sir. “ You reply immediately, forcing your eyes back up to his. “They’re the signature flower for any situation like this. Women love ‘em.”

He grins, all teeth and crinkled eyes, “You think she’ll like the red ones?”

“Those are the only ones I got,” You shrug as if his smile doesn’t make your heart skip a few beats, thumping irregularly in your chest.

“I’ll take one then.” He’s confident as he walks to the counter, setting a single red rose on the worn wood. Its satin-like petals rest in front of you, almost as if it’s  _taunting_  you.

“That’ll be eighty cents.” You reply, offering him a gentle smile as you tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. He sets a dollar on the counter as you fish around in the drawer for change.

He holds his hand out for the coins, your fingers brushing his palm as you set them gently down. His eyes haven’t left your frame, hoping for one more of your  _gorgeous_ smiles before he leaves.

When he doesn’t receive one, he turns away in disappointment, pocketing the dimes as he steps out of the shop, the bell hanging at the door clanging loudly, a mock attempt to muffle the thudding of your heart.

“Hope you get the girl of your dreams, stranger.” You whisper to the empty shop.

You don’t notice that he’s left the rose on the counter until you close up, a smile finding its way onto your lips immediately.

(The rose is left in a vase, resting on a windowsill in your kitchen, highlighted every morning with the sun’s golden rays.)

(You look at it every day and smile stupidly wide.)

(Maybe it is possible to win a girl’s heart in a day.)

~~~

It becomes routine. He comes in, smiles widely, flirts a little, buys you a flower, leaves some part of you aching.

(You keep every  _single_ flower that he gives to you, pressing them between pages of old books as their condition deteriorates.)

You begin to wonder if this is what  _love_ is - if this is all that it will  _ever_ be - all smiles and unspoken promises.

So when he kisses you, it catches you completely off guard. His lips are soft and warm and  _right,_ the calloused pad of his finger tracing along the curvature of your jaw.

He’s trying to memorize the look in your eyes as he breaks the kiss, confusion clear in them about  _why the fuck he hadn’t done that earlier._ Your lips are parted, silence filling the small space between your bodies, your breaths a little short and shallow.

(He’s wondering if you know just how  _much_ he loves you.)

(And if you know that he’s leaving in a few hours.)

“James…” God, he loves his name on your tongue. He’s leaning in again, trying to take his time. He’s got time, he wants to think. He’s got time with you and he wants to savor it. He wants to believe it.

(He doesn’t.)

“Did the rose work?” The words are uttered with a teasing smile, your hand resting on his chest.

“God, I hope so.” He’s smiling too, looking down at  _his_ girl -  _his._ What a funny concept.

He’s got that thought - that delusion - in mind and presses his lips to yours, pulling you closer and closer and  _closer._ It’s as if he wants them to be  _one._

You’re trying to find purchase on  _something, anything_  because he’s got you drowning in the very essence of  _him._ Your hand comes up to rest on his collarbone, hands pulling at his shirt in a meek attempt to find stability.

His smile doesn’t fade.

You tilt your head back, pressing your lips closer to his, hand coming up to cup his jaw,  _beckoning_ him. James finds himself completely helpless to deny you, pressing his chest to yours.

His lips part, pulling your lips with them and it’s  _good and right._ His arms wrap fully around your body, tracing every inch of you that his arms can reach, touch light as if he’s trying to memorize  _everything._

In that moment, you’re undeniably  _his_  and he’s undeniably  _yours._

He whispers it, the firmest confirmation of the storm of emotions,  _God, I love you. I love you so much._

Your only response is to press your lips to flush against his, hand sliding up to his hair, tangling in the strands as his hat topples off. You take a deep breath through your nose, still not satisfied with the minuscule space still existing between your bodies.

(He leaves, kissing you between whispered promises of his return.)

~~~

(He doesn’t come back.)

(Maybe he’s never been good at keeping promises.)

When you receive news of his death, you don’t cry.

He wouldn’t want that. But you put on a smile, the same one that you’d given him on the day he’d strolled in with all the confidence of a king, challenging to win your heart in one day.

You smile when you set the rose on his grave.

You smile when you kiss the corner of the gravestone.

You smile when you repeat those same words back to him.

_I love you too, James._


	15. First Kiss with Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How your first kiss with Bucky Barnes would be like.
> 
> Warnings: fluff

It’s a funny thing really - to think he’s found someone who belongs to him just as much as he belongs to them. He’s not used to the fact as much as he’d like to be, his cool metal palm resting on your cheek, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone. He smiles, lips lifting in the  _most wonderful_ show of happiness at that  _truth_ that you’re  _his_ and he’s  _yours._

You’re looking up at him with bright, soft eyes, lips barely parted, breaths  _just_ a little short. He wonders - with the smallest part of his mind that remains sane from a single thought of  _you_ \- whether you have any idea how much he loves you. 

Bucky leans in closer, trying to take his time, trying to  _remember_ that he’s got time with you. 

He closes his eyes and presses his lips to yours, as gently as he can - even gentler perhaps. Your lips are soft as they glide against his, and he feels something in his chest - something akin to the feeling of falling, one that he welcomes with wide arms and an open heart.

His fingers thread in your hair and he pulls you in  _closer_ like he can’t get enough of you - like he’s not sure there can  _ever_ be enough of you. He wants to be so close to you that you’re one in the same; like you’re two pieces of a puzzle that the final image  _cannot_ be complete without. 

Your hand comes to rest on his collarbone, fingers pulling at the collar of his shirt as if you’re trying to find  _your anchor_. He smiles into the kiss,  _just a little_ , but it’s enough to cement the fact that he’s fallen. He’s fallen and is still falling deeper and deeper into his night sky to find his North Star - to find  _you._

Then, your other hand comes to up cup his jaw, beckoning him closer  _still_ and he can’t find it in himself to deny you. He leans in, chest pressing to yours, feeling the steady rise and fall of your breath and the way that strands of your hair brush his forehead. 

Bucky feels himself unbidden, lips parting further to deepen the kiss. His lips open and close, pulling your lips with his. He can’t help the shuddering breath that leaves his lips as your fingers pull the back of his head  _closer closer closer,_ nails gently scraping his scalp. 

It’s  _good_ and  _right_ and he revels in the feeling, his hands running down your body, tracing every inch of it that he can reach, trying to memorize every gentle curve _,_ fearful of  _forgetting._

His hands stop at your waist and he pulls you in tightly,  _feeling_ your lips, your body with his every sense attuned to your every movement. 

Your body is pressed flush to his own, your chest to his, your hips to his, your  _lips to his._ And he holds you - closer still - as if he was to lose you any second. 

Bucky kisses you like he’s falling in love with you - not like he already has. 


	16. Little Tricks [Bucky Barnes]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say love is beautiful and yet - after love, no one is what they were before. It’s what happens to all things beautiful. (Unseelie Fae!Bucky Barnes x Reader)
> 
> Warnings: none

Mortals are not meant to love - they do not find it easy to. It is not written in the war-torn hearts that they hold within the clawed embrace of horrifying stories of their history.

They do not find the strength in their souls to  _love._

Perhaps it is a curse, perhaps a blessing. But it is a truth that cannot be changed by mere wishes and hopeless dreams.

* * *

**On the banks of the River Lotus**

He rests on the lowest branch of the willow overhanging the river, the sole of his foot grazing the rushing water of the river below. He finds peace in the touch of the warmth of the water, a welcome contrast to the frigid grip of his mother’s touch.

Of course, there is no distaste in his heart for his mother -  _even the Unseelie can love_ \- but there remains a sharp sting in his heart of failure for every disdainful comment thrown his way haphazardly.

There is defeat evident in the darkened eyes of his that have seen eons upon eons of chaos - that  _sometimes,_ he had wreaked. It is fact that he has loved with open arms and a bright smile. It is also fact that he has lost with a heavy heart and a hardened gaze. And yet - his heart is something that flies as free as the very birds that soar the heavens above his head, awaiting the moment of their capture.

He breathes in the clean air, remembering that it is from this very spot from which he had laid eyes on the one that had stolen the very breath from his lungs with nothing more than a simple, curious glance cast almost  _carelessly_  his way.

* * *

**Vale of Westfeld**

The smell of baked earth rises over the marketplace. Merchants, with their tables, heaped high with roasted meat, fresh bread, and pitted dates, shout out, advertising their prices for their goods.

In the courtyard, two men - thick, battle-scarred and  _ugly_ \- face off, spewing curses to irk each other into attacking first. There’s a large crowd gathered around them, scribes struggling to write down everyone’s shouts of their choice of the victor.

You look around, hoping to spot a fallen crust of bread or an apple at the crowd’s feet.

You’d think that someone as hungry as you wouldn’t miss the shine of the gold coins. But those coins could buy you a shelter when it rained. Might allow you to buy a thick cloak made from the fur of a bear - enough to help you survive the winter when the winds cut across your skin like the merciless knives that the King’s Guard wielded.

You’re not really paying attention to the people in the crowd that gathered around them anymore - their coins that hide in their purses are far more interesting.

You find yourself moving towards the crowd at an alarming pace, not even knowing where the strength to move came from. It’s easier to get lost in the labyrinth of waving limbs and screaming voices than you realize - easier still to slip your hands between the confines of cotton doublets to find the cool metal of coins.

Jostling your way out of the crowd, you’ve got a triumphant smile on your lips, casting one last glance back at them before you began to run.

Maybe that was your mistake - running.

For instance, if you’d taken the time to simply examine a vendor’s goods, no one would’ve known you were a thief.

But the hurry to flee was your downfall.

There’s a slight ache in your calves as you speed up, risking a cautious glance back at the now parting crowd - many  _just_  now realizing that their belts felt  _slightly_ lighter.

Choking back your fear at having been caught, you turn back to your path - you’re unable to stop your momentum as you find yourself crashing into the broad chest of a guard, his armor clinking as he stumbled back slightly from the force with which you’d crashed into him.

You find yourself stumbling back, rubbing your head to ease the pinpricks of pain that shot your scalp. There’s a clear fear in your eyes - something that he seems to revel in, adjusting his helmet out of his eyes.

He’s got anger painted into the harsh planes of his face, lips upturned in a sneer of deliberate intent as his hand closes around your arm tugging you upwards harshly to meet his eyes - the coins clink together on the dirt ground as they slide from your sweaty palms.

“Where do you think you’re running off to, street rat?”

The fear built up in your chest, the heavyweight clogging your throat and making it nearly impossible to breathe - you’re unable to answer, much less think with the way that his hand tightens around your arm. Your eyes don’t dare leave him, trying to find a way to twist yourself out of his grasp.

You can’t even find it in yourself to formulate some sort of lie - you’d never expected yourself to be caught in such a position as this.

His eyes are frightening - cold, mismatched - and it only serves to scare you more. Your mouth is dry, words caught in your throat.

At your lack of an answer, his sneer transforms into a triumphant smirk - almost as if he’s glad he gets to order nothing less than an execution.

“I’ll string you up right here and now,” He threatens, “Answer me!”

You give an experimental tug of your arm, hoping - perhaps in vain - that he would’ve loosened his grip, even if it a fraction of an inch.

A growl leaves his lips and for a moment he sounds more animal than man. You wonder - with what little thought remains coherent - if you’ll live to see the sunrise tomorrow.

With the way that he’s looking at you, you doubt it.

Your mouth opens again, almost as if your body has half a mind to react in any way to find a means of escape.

Nothing leaves your lips.

* * *

**On the outskirts of the Silent Wood**

Fae are not meant to care for the lowly matter of the mortals that walk among their wood, hunting for game in the thick of the trees.

And yet, Bucky finds himself strangely intrigued by the loud shouts of the hunting party as they intrude upon his corner of the wood, their bow strings just as taut as their muscles. Save for their loud remarks that scatter in the light breeze, there is little noise.

His attention is immediately captured by the sight of a girl, her hands bound with metal. Despite how tight the cuffs seem to be drawn around her wrists, chafing her skin, not a sound leaves her lips as she looks around their temporary camp, wild eyes scanning every leaf, every branch on the ground as if they would somehow be the solution to her escape. He watches her from his stance on the tree with the utmost curiosity, his eyes glinting in the soft rays of a sun just beginning to rise, painting the sky the color of dried blood -

She doesn’t look to be a part of their group, blood visible on the corner of her lips. She doesn’t move, only watches as two men in her party bent down to the rushing river, cupping their hands in the icy water and bringing it to their lips.

The girl licks her own lips, watching them quench their thirst, her own lips cracked from a lack of hydration. She hesitates for a moment, as if trying to  _think_ for just one moment before she acts - it’s a moment that doesn’t last very long, her motives driven by her need rather than her caution.

She casts one stray glance behind her to the man standing there before her head cracks back harshly, slamming into the nose of the man that had been handling her chains. With a loud cry, he releases her chains, the metal links clinking loudly together as the woman dodges his flailing hands, trying to step away from their party.

She runs towards the river, straight into the path of the two men that had been drinking from it not long ago. Catching her flailing arms, they drag her back, landing a harsh slap on her cheek that  _echoes_ in the empty wood. The woman’s pleas go unheeded as she’s thrown back into the cage that had contained her miles before.

“Don’t you dare take your eyes off the witch,” One of the men warns, his hand not loosening on the hilt of his sheathed sword. He doesn’t notice that his dagger is no longer within his grasp nor the glint of metal in the woman’s hands as she hides them under the worn cloak that decorates her frame.

Bucky cannot help the laughter that bubbles up in his throat.

* * *

**The Silent Wood**

The thorns of scattered bushes scratch at your legs as you run through the wood, daring not to look back at the burning flames of the camp, screams of agony ringing out in the dead of night. Fear fills your every nerve as you stumble through the wood, eyes burning from the smoke that rose in a column above the burning tents, the ink-like tendril a sharp contrast to the white of the snow that decorated the trees above.

The dagger still remains clutched tightly in the embrace of your palm, the sharpened edge of the blade digging into the soft flesh. You’re too in a rush to bother paying attention to the pinpricks of pain.

The loud scream of something that sounds vaguely like an animal pierces the dark sky. You find yourself in more of a hurry than ever, risking a glance back to see if anyone -  _anything_ had followed you from the direction of the fire.

You’re unable to make out anything in the darkness, frightened to your very core of your concealed surroundings. Perhaps it’s a lack of coherent thought or rest but you  _swear_ that the tree’s branches had moved - even with the lack of wind.

“That was a terribly nice trick,” A seemingly disembodied voice rings out. It causes you to spin around - you’re greeted by empty space.

He remains part of the shadows that he has learned to let consume him. And yet, there remains the smallest part of him - the most indistinct of his coherent thoughts - that try to induce him into revealing himself to you, a lowly mortal that wouldn’t  _dare_ cross him.

“Show yourself,” There is a lack of fear in your voice - something that grasps his fleeting respect. The smile that had been playing at his lips widens, eyes filled with intent, perhaps malicious, perhaps  _curious_.

There’s a slight rustle of branches that causes you to immediately raise the dagger - despite not really knowing how to defend yourself with a blade,  _especially_ against an unseen threat.

“Show yourself, dammit!” You freeze almost immediately as the words leave your lips, a burst of cold air falling on your neck. Just as you whip around, the chill vanishes.

“Are you always so unpleasant to strangers?”

Your retort is immediate, “More so to those that I can’t see.”

“Your words wound me.”

“More than my dagger would?”

His laughter is pleasant in the way that it sets fire to your veins - something that at one point, only mead would have been the cause of.

You lower your dagger, the grip loosening on it as you tuck it back into your tunic, “I mean you no harm.”

“Did you truly think you could harm me, little dove?” It’s then that you’re greeted with two shining eyes, filled with amusement as you stumble back in surprise.

“Who are you?” You demand, regaining your balance as your eyes take him in, almost greedily as if they’d  _craved_  such a beautiful sight after spending so long watching drab surroundings.

He stands tall, a smile playing at his lips- there’s almost something  _royal_ about it.

“Who do you want me to be, little dove?”

* * *

**Town Linden**

You’ve taken care to avoid the Silent Wood, taking caution not to find yourself in  _his_ presence again.

Of course, there was a certain curiosity that invaded your senses with every thought of him - that much was a given.

It was a festering sort of doubt, something lurking the crevices of your thoughts, waiting for its chance to ravage.

You’d like to think you’ll never see him again. You’d also like to think you don’t  _want_ to see him again.

Funny thing about hopes? They’re futile. Especially in the face of conflicting desire.

* * *

You’ve stolen from him before, you realize.

You would recognize those eyes  _anywhere,_ those same hues that resembled the ocean after a storm, those same hues that glimmered constantly with unspoken secrets and dreams locked in iron cages so that even  _he_ couldn’t remember them. Those were the same eyes which you’d risked a glance back for, running to escape - those were the same eyes that had brought your capture.

 _His_  are the last coins which remain unspent on necessity - they still shine with an unparalleled gleam despite all the grime that covers the gold.

You’ve tried to spend them. You’ve tried everything in your power to forget the fact that no matter how many times you’ve tried to rid yourself of them, they find their way back into your hands. And maybe, your perseverance to get rid of them was more targeted towards getting rid of any trace of Bucky but that was something that perhaps, you weren’t completely ready to admit.

Perhaps you should fear the magic which they hold but you can’t find it in yourself to be anything but lustful of knowledge.

* * *

It’s autumn now, cool breezes blowing to chill even those dressed in cloaks. Leaves have fallen to the ground, leaving wet, decaying mounds of dead matter to get stuck in carriage wheels.

You find yourself spending more and more time in small inns, going from town to town quicker than your captors could possibly hope to catch up.

Looking over your shoulder becomes second nature to you - in the way that most times you find yourself not knowing where you were walking.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise when you find yourself in the marketplace, trying to blend in with the townsfolk as if you could  _ever_ be one of them.

They certainly don’t seem to notice a stranger in their presence, all too focused on finding useful wares for the upcoming winter.

And maybe it’s become a habit, but you find yourself wandering haplessly around the marketplace, taking in the colors and sounds of the rushing crowds.

A stall of clothing catches your attention - a small man watches from behind, his back hunched, eyes dark. You gravitate towards him, looking through the goods that he had on display. There’s no one else at the stall.

He watches with terrifying fascination, a scowl playing at his lips as if - from your appearance - he believed you would not have anything to pay. Risking a glance towards him, you offer him a semblance of a smile, wary eyes watching his every move as he shifted - despite the fact that he was no more than an old man, he exuded an air of strength, as if he knew something that you dared not speak of.

Your hands find a pair of thick boots which you knew would be useful for the coming weather.

He doesn’t speak for a moment as your hold out the last of your coins to him -

“You think me fool enough to lay my hands on cursed coin, child?”

* * *

His name is James Buchanan Barnes.

It takes you three nights to find it out, tired eyes scouring over worn pages.

There have been tales of the chaos that he has brought; the storms that he has gathered.

You want to think it’s a myth, passed down from generation to generation, told around raging fires under a black velvet sky of a creature more fearful than the nightmarish monsters children dreamt of - a creature so evil that his cruelty rivaled that of the devil himself.

They say he is a slave to animal instinct, vicious in the way that the mere mention of his name  _should_ make you want to flee in fear.

He’s not real.

At least you want to believe that he’s not.

You know that it’s a lie - you’ve seen him. You’ve seen the harsh planes and sharp angles of his face, you’ve seen the distinct,  _deliberate_ slant of his mouth. You’ve heard his voice, almost aristocratic,  _terribly_  self-assured.

You’ve seen him once and that’s all the confirmation you need to accept that James is inhumanly, dangerously beautiful in the way that a fire is beautiful - from a distance,  _just_ until it burns you.

The tales call him the King of the Shadows. A harbinger of death.

You should fear him.

You do not.

* * *

**The River Lotus**

It is not one of the warmer days that you choose to fish - then again, with winter approaching quickly, you really didn’t have much of a choice.

With your leather shoes tossed to the riverbank, you’re up to your knees in water, wearing just your tunic, watching for moving shadows in the rushing water.

Before you can even think of plunging your hands into the water, attempting to close around the slick body of a fish, you hear a rippling sound. Ignoring it, you huff, refocusing on the hunt.

It’s moments later that  _his_  voice rings out, flowing in perfect symphony with the bubbling river, “How do you expect to catch  _anything_ that way?”

You’d like to say that you hadn’t screamed like a child faced with the prospect of finding out the monsters they dreamed of were real, but unfortunately, that was not the truth.

The surprise of his presence catches you completely off guard, your foot slipping on a rock - you find yourself at a loss of an anchor to hold yourself up, falling into the rushing water, coming up sputtering water.

“You bastard!”

Of course, he takes the insult in a stride, his laughter ringing out.

“Do I really scare you that much, little dove?”

“You lost me my dinner, how else was I expected to react?”

“You never had a chance of catching anything like that.”

“Well, since you seem to know  _everything,_ why don’t you do it for me,  _your highness_.” You mock, completely forgetting the irony in the statement.

“So you  _do_ know who I am?”

You hope that the moment of hesitation before your response goes ignored.

“Yes. You’re the _idiot_  who lost me my dinner.” Your palm makes contact with the surface of the water, splashing it at him harshly as if the water would be able to harm him - you’re only rewarded with a gentle smile.

It’s with those words that you stand from the river, not realizing just how the water would’ve affected your unbleached tunic, the material sticking to your skin.

And maybe, he’s about to splash you back - or fall to his knees and beg forgiveness (you can’t say that you didn’t  _hope_ ) but he does bend down, his hand dipping into the water.

The smile immediately fades from his lips when he looks back up at you.

As much as Bucky tries to avert his eyes, he finds it near impossible to, pupils darkening as his eyes map every curve.

You’re about to taunt him for not actually knowing how to catch fish before you realize  _just_ what had caught his eyes. Your tunic is soaking wet, perfectly transparent in the light of day. He can see, well, almost  _everything._

You’re quick to cover yourself with your arms, looking away with shame burning your cheeks - the admiration doesn’t fade from his eyes as he takes a step forward, the  _emotion_ in his eyes so intense that you suddenly can’t move.

His hands glide up your arms, coming to rest on your shoulders.

Bucky’s chest rises and falls almost  _heavily_ as if he’s having trouble breathing. In so many eons of living, he can’t remember a time where he’s found himself unable to speak, much less  _think,_ around another person.

But the way that you’re looking at him, with water dripping from your hair onto his shoulders - he feels as if he’s never been more  _alive._

And then he’s leaning in, lips parting  _just_ slightly but it’s enough to send a shiver through you. He’s close to you, so close that you can smell the lingering scent of cinnamon on his skin, so close that you can feel his cool breath, so close that his lips touch yours.

It’s gentle. If anything it’s gentle.

His hands come up to cup your face, lips pressing ever so close to yours.

You find yourself clinging to him, hands dropping from your body to clutch at his back.

_How is this happening?_

_He’s not human._

_He’s dangerous._

With a shaky breath, you’re the first to pull away, stumbling back -

“I have to go.”

* * *

**The Silent Wood**

There is a constant reminder of his touch in the corners of your mind - you’d like to forget but you can’t find it in yourself to think of anything but him.

It shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise to you when you find yourself wandering around the market  _again_ , searching - almost blindly - for the same merchant whose eyes had twinkled with mischief having taken nothing but a simple glance at the shining coins you had held out to him not days ago.

You’ve got little luck, now utterly hopeless now as you looked wildly around. He was nowhere to be seen, the small space where his stall had been left empty as people milled around it.

You don’t realize that you tread away from the marketplace, much too focused on your mission to find the man.

Though there is doubt in your heart that he might have run, there is no proof to support any reason why he might have vanished - and so quick too.

It’s midday by the time that you realize you’re no longer in town and if anything - you’re  _utterly_ lost.

Looking at the ground, you find that there was no  _path_  - the ground is decorated with scattered bushes and branches, not even a trace of your own steps visible for you to even  _attempt_ to follow.

The loud croak of a crow fills the silent air, the rustle of its feathers following. It doesn’t help your building panic, causing you to whip around immediately, trying to find the bird.

There hadn’t been any sign of life anywhere when you’d first come here but now, you began to question if you might have been better off that way.

A slight chill begins to form in the air, a delicate layer of frost begins to form, leading from a yew tree. You find yourself entranced by the quick forming ice - something in you  _knows_ with a near crippling certainty that it would  _burn_ were you to reach out and touch it.

The air smells of blood - you’re not quite sure how you know but what conscious thought still remains sane tells you to run.

“Is there something you desire from me, child? You’ve come a terribly long way if you’re just here to talk.”

Your eyes immediately snap to the source of the voice, the same condescending tone that rejected your,  _no_ , Bucky’s coin.

He’s got a smirk pulling at his lips, the sharp tips of his incisors visible against the pink of his mouth. And even though he is an old man, even though he  _seems,_ he  _looks_ like an old man, you find your heart fluttering in your chest - like a caged bird trying to flee.

You surprise yourself in realizing you still have  _some_ control over your voice, “I have something of yours… I know what - what you are.”

His smile tugs into something  _feral,_ his laugh electrifying as it washes over you _-_

It’s scary how fast the fae can move.


	17. A Change of Routine [Bucky Barnes]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A librarian helps the Winter Soldier learn about what he's missed since the War. (Bucky Barnes x Librarian!Reader)
> 
> Warnings: my garbage mouth, fluff is not my strong suit but neither is anything else whoop here we go, there’s also like three (3) whole dialogues in this rip

He looks out of place. Maybe he doesn’t know it but dressed in a sweater with a cap decorating his head -  _who the fuck wears hats indoors -_ he looks completely,  _utterly_ out of place and a little lost. 

And it makes sense - he’s new. To this place, to this library - to  _you_ , he’s different. But it’s not a  _bad_ different really, it’s the sort of different that you crave after a long time of being greeted with the same surroundings, after following the same routine. 

The first time he shows up, you figure that after what,  _three hours_  of walking around like an idiot, not even choosing a book - he wouldn’t be back, ‘cause he didn’t find what he was looking for. 

But he comes back. You think that it’s temporary - three hours weren’t enough for him to find what he wanted in the  _small_ library -  _this small library_  -  in the corner of some godforsaken part of New York City where it was always maddeningly silent for a city that never slept. 

No. He comes back day after day, wearing the same fucking hat and the same fucking sweater - maybe that’s what  _really_ bothers you about him -  _he’s becoming constant._

It’s always the furthest from your desk that he looks, it’s always the same clothes, the same curious gaze - he’s not fancy or even remotely exciting but he’s  _always here_  - or it seems like it anyway. 

It’s a little funny if anything -  _you,_ a non-seeming, ‘calm’ librarian seething at a man who hadn’t said a word, a man who made use of a resource that was  _open to the public_. 

Of course, it’s not like you  _hate_ him - you haven’t got a plausible reason to. And maybe, you’re looking for one but you’re the one who first talks to him - 

“Hey, do you need help finding something?” 

Of course, it’s not a fifty-page essay that you managed to pull together three hours before the deadline on why he needs to pick something quick and  _sit the fuck down_  but - it’s a start. 

He doesn’t answer for a moment but that moment is enough for you to realize just  _how blue_ his eyes are and the arch of his mouth and the five o’clock shadow decorating his jaw and the strand of stray hair falling in his eyes that it takes  _everything_ you have not to lift a hand up and brush it away - you almost don’t catch his response, “No, thank you.” 

You suppose you should be a little embarrassed at his utter refusal - you’re not. In fact, you think that your first interaction is as good as it could’ve been ‘cause  _it’s a start._

He comes in day after day to scan over the same books and feel the same spines and see the deteriorating bindings - his name is James Buchanan Barnes.

Well, he’s lost that part of himself. His name is Bucky. And his smile hides  _a lot._ It surprises you. 

He also surprises you when he comes to  _you,_ asking for your help. Of course, it’s with stuttering sentences and maybe a  _few_  detours to get to the books - the ones about  _Captain America -_  that he’s looking for but  _it’s a start._

His name is Bucky and he’s just an ordinary man with an ordinary heart. 

His name is Bucky and he loves easily. He loves with everything that he is, everything that he has. 

His handwriting is also shit. Then again, that’s not to say he didn’t try to make it legible. Except,  _trying_ wasn’t everything. 

He leaves the note in the book, the corner of the blue paper sticking out, leaving it on your desk so you could return it. 

It’s two simple words that line the piece of paper, scrawly and entirely  _him._

_Thank you._

You save that note. It sticks to the fridge with one of those weirdly pathetic glass fish magnets that you bought on vacation to  _somewhere._

And maybe it’s the note itself or the smile on his lips as he handed it to you but you’re almost sure you’ve never received a better gift - if that’s what you would even call it. 

The next day, he shows up again and that’s the day that he shows up with his eyes a light with the fire that he was almost  _positive_ he’d lost. 

It catches you a little off guard - his sudden  _brightness -_  but if anything, it’s a pleasant surprise, something warm and cold at the same time - you almost trip while trying to restack books the first time you see his smile.

When you find him another book on the Captain, you’re the one who hands him a note. 

_I’m glad you found what you’re looking for._

You watch the upward tug of his lips as he reads the note, lips tugging up in that crooked,  _fucking gorgeous_ smile of his - happiness definitely suits him. 

Of course, the pleasantries don’t last when he walks in the next day - his hair drips down, leaving wet stains on the carpet. You’re glad that there aren’t many people there that day because you really couldn’t have helped the words that leave your lips, “Bucky,  _what the fuck_?” 

The note he receives that day is a little bit less vulgar and yet, he still keeps it. 

_Next time you come in here dripping like that, I’ll kick you out myself._

Yeah, it’s a warning and yeah, it’s delivered with a glare that promises its  _definite_ occurrence but nonetheless,  _it’s sweet._

And you really didn’t understand the smile that tugged at his lips after he’d read that but then again, you never really understood this James Buchanan Barnes _,_ this _Bucky_. 

Sure, at this point, he basically shows up every day, looking through the small collection of books that the library held but he’s still very much a  _stranger._

You forget that when you read his notes later at night when sleep evades you, your finger tracing along the curves of his letters, following the slight slant of his words. 

_Looking forward to it, doll._

The notes become routine. And though it is a change - you welcome it with that godforsaken smile tugging at your lips every time Bucky smiled. 

The one thing you don’t know is that it’s your very first note - your very first  _reply_ that he holds closest to his heart.  _I’m glad you found what you’re looking for._

And maybe, reading up on the time he’d missed was what  _had_ been what he was looking for but that’s the funny thing about  _life_ \- you can’t really explain what you’re looking for until you find it. 

As for Bucky, he’d been looking for normalcy - it’s not too much to ask for.

After all, he’s just an ordinary man with stormy eyes and a shaky past. 

He’s just  _Bucky_  and maybe consistency - it’s not so bad. 


	18. Mishaps [Bucky Barnes]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Bucky receives a message from a barista, he figures it’d be rude not to respond. (Bucky Barnes x Reader Coffeeshop AU)
> 
> Warnings: i like soft things but i am bad at writing soft things

It’s small, not fancy or classy in the way suit-clad businessmen usually expect their choice of a coffee-shop to be.

It’s small, with about three wooden tables with chipping black paint on the wooden paneling lining the ceiling and despite being cleaned hour after hour, there’s the sticky residue of sugar that clings to the worn wood, the sound of the Beatles shifting through the air from the nearly ancient jukebox in the corner of the room.

It’s small, but there’s nothing to say that you don’t love it.

There’s barely a handful of people the day that he walks in, ocean blue eyes scanning the menu above your head. He’s got a curious look in his eye as he scans the cafe, taking in the warm browns of the paint and the curve of the ‘C’s on the chalkboard menu hanging above your head.

He’s got a frown playing at his lips as he stands by his friend’s side - a bit too close to be professional.

“Man, you care for the whole personal space thing?” His friend’s voice rings out, clearly annoyed as he nudges the other man to the side slightly, eyeing the menu.

You greet them with the same practiced smile that everyone received - a slight upturn of cherry chapstick painted lips with the utmost precision -  _just_ enough to make everyone believe that you’d never gotten tired making drinks for every new customer to enjoy.

“Welcome to the Coffee House, what can I get you today?” The man with the cute little nose -  _the stickler for personal space_ \- mirrors your wide grin and it surprises you really, the genuine happiness reflecting in his eyes. You can’t help the slight falter in your own.

“Small caramel macchiato.”

“And for your friend?” You question, raising an eyebrow at the man who hadn’t even bothered to return your smile. Sure, it’d been somewhat fake but common courtesy still had to be a thing where-ever the hell  _ocean eyes_  came from.

“Large black coffee.” His voice is a little  _rough_ , as if he hadn’t used it in years. You attempt another smile his way. He doesn’t return it.

“Can I get a name?” You question, looking up from your computer screen to meet the men’s eyes.

“Sam.” You nod, writing his name on the smaller cup as you set it off to the side. Ocean eyes doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you as you put his larger cup next to it, making a mental note to keep the two together so the order didn’t get separated.

“That’ll be $7.20. Your drinks will be ready soon.” You smile, taking the ten dollar bill from the man and giving him back the change.

You take a moment to watch the two men walk to one of the tables in the back of the cafe, bickering about something that one of them had said about the other’s choice of drink - something about “being bitter like you.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes at their remarks, focusing on making their drinks.

Not moments after you liftup the blank cup to fill it with black coffee does one of your regulars walk in. She’s got her lips downturned in a frown, her hair undone and looking a little tangled if anything.

“Hey, Tasha. The usual?” You question from behind the counter, receiving nothing more than a noncommittal nod from her as she takes a short peek at her phone.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just work stress, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” You offer her a smile, a  _genuine_ one - it’s uneven, just a little crooked and your lips are mostly closed, with the smallest sliver of teeth showing - it’s enough to receive one back from her.

“Take a seat, I’ll bring it to ya.” You say, deciding to make her coffee first, leaving a small note that was bound to earn at least one more smile from your friend.

_Smile, dumbass. You look unapproachable._

Of course, it’s meant as a joke - she’d know - after all, it was her that’d taught you how to perfect your smile when newbies walked in looking for caffeine to fuel their sleep deprived souls after they spent their last hours before a deadline, rushing to finish a paper that perhaps should’ve been started a little before.

It doesn’t take you too long to finish up the drinks, calling out Sam’s order and taking the steaming cup of black coffee along with one of those chocolate chip muffins that you’d baked a few hours ago to Tasha.

Taking a seat across from her, you’re adamant in convincing her to reveal the cause of her disarray. And just as she’s about to answer, you feel a gentle tap on your shoulder. Huffing softly you turn around, being immediately greeted with those same stormy blue eyes that spoke volumes with no words -

 **“I got your message. What the hell was that supposed to mean?”**  You stare at him in confusion for a moment before it dawns on you, your mouth opening and closing like a fish unable to breathe  _in_  water.

You immediately reach for Tasha’s cup, turning it in hopes that you’ll see your writing on it - it’s blank, nothing but the emblem of the coffee shop decorating it. But his - it’s got the same slightly slanted script that belonged to  _you_  decorating it.

See, the unfortunate thing about adulthood comes in the smallest fact that you actually have to deal with the results of your actions - no heed paid to the fact that it might’ve been a mistake.

This definitely wasn’t the same as being a twelve year old ding dong ditching your neighbors with a stupidly wide smile and battered knees from attempting to jump the fence while trying to escape.

This most  _definitely_ was not the same.

In fact, you’re expecting some sort of utterly horrible comment about your incompetency -

You’re greeted by his laughter.

* * *

You’ve got him labelled as a regular by the end of the second week. Of course, you’ve still got to get over the whole ‘not looking him in the eye’ thing but you do know his order by heart - and it’s not black coffee.

You find that despite walking into a coffee shop everyday at exactly 5:30 pm for the past two weeks of his life, he doesn’t  _actually_  enjoy coffee. He finds the taste too bitter but for the sake all that staying awake bullshit, he forces down cup after cup.

He likes Earl Grey tea with just a splash of almond milk and two sugar cubes with a cheese danish on the side that he never manages to finish. Sometimes it’s on the house, sometimes it’s not - you decide that he doesn’t really need to know - not after the smile that plays at his lips after the first bite.

At this point, you’ve gotten used to him - the blue eyes, half-smiles, and the sound of his voice. Of course, there’s still the way that you greet him that remains - it’s all ‘sir’s and utter respect that dances between your every word to him.

If anything, he finds it amusing - there’s the utterly rigid way that you carry yourself in his presence, bottom lip held hostage between your teeth as you rush to finish his order. Bucky supposes that he should be a little pitiful of the fact that you’re trying so goddamn hard to make up for a mistake that hadn’t resulted in much more than the fresh feeling of happiness for him but he can’t bring himself to say much about it, not when the truth remains so blatant in the air - you  _make him happy._

Maybe it’s the scent of coffee beans that clings to your day after day from working in the small space. Maybe it’s the confident glint in your eyes when you recommend a drink from the menu to a new customer, knowing with utter certainty that they’d like it. Maybe it’s the stray strand of hair that you blow out of your face every five minutes; something that he can’t help but wonder how easy it would just be to lift up a hand and brush it away - but then again, that wouldn’t be  _you._

Maybe it’s a crush like Sam says - a passing infatuation. Bucky swears it’s something more.

At least, he’d like it to be.

He’s not sure where the confidence comes from but he’s the one that talks to her first. It’s a little bit unconventional but  _he’s Bucky Barnes_ \- unconventional is what he does best.

He buys two drinks the day that’s he’s rewarded with the first smile of yours that’s aimed at him, the first one that’s _because of him._

Bucky’s entire attention is focused on you as you make his drinks, watching the way that her eyes shifted to him for mere seconds before shifting quickly away at having been caught staring.

“Earl Grey with almond milk and a black coffee for Bucky?” You call out, your eyes not daring meet his as if you’d like to think he was no longer standing there.

There’s a little confusion in your features - probably because of the fact that he’d asked for coffee when he’d been so clear in stating his distaste for it only the second time he’d been here. If you find it strange -  _and you do_  - you don’t say anything.

And if you find it  _stranger_  when he asks to borrow a pen, you  _still_ don’t say anything, handing the one that’d been clipped to the pocket of your apron to him.

Bucky’s smile doesn’t fade for a single moment as he scrawls a hasty message onto the cup, handing you back your pen as he sets the cup down gently in an attempt not to spill anything.

“I hope you like coffee more than me, darlin’”

You raise an eyebrow at the nickname, your eyes shifting from his own to the cup in his hand.

“What do you mean?”

“For you.”

Your lips twist in a slight frown before you skeptically take the cup from him, eyes catching the black script that lined the side of the cup -

_Smile dumbass, you look unapproachable._


	19. By Chance [Bucky Barnes]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky falls in love with a stranger. (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Rediscovering New York had become a much more ambitious mission than Bucky had anticipated - especially in winter with the gentle flakes of snow on the tracks causing short delays that only irked the commuters even more.

Of course, the subway had been the practical choice. That, of course, didn’t account for the fact that it was rush hour, commuters rushing into the open doors in a hurry to get home to the comfort of warm sheets and warmer meals.

He’s determined, if anything, to get on the train before he misses it, brushing past the flailing limbs and loud shouts. For some reason, he’s got this irresistible urge to look back like he’s seen something too quick to process what it was. There’s a flash of maroon against the sea of dark blue and grey winter coats. It stands out in the bland starkness of everything else - he risks a glance at the owner of the purple. It turns out to be a scarf, hanging loosely from the neck of a woman.

By that funny thing called chance, she too had stopped to stare at the maroon material of his own shirt, his jacket hanging open. She immediately forces her gaze away, embarrassed at having been caught by him, offering him a gentle smile - one which he returns - before walking towards the train, getting lost in the crowd.

There’s a lingering warmth in his cheeks. He finds doesn’t find the sensation to be unpleasant.

You suppose that you should be a little more relieved to have gotten to work just in time. But for some reason, there’s a stupid smile playing at your lips, the soft material of your maroon scarf slipping through your fingers to fall on your lap - it had to have been what caught his eye.

Work seems to go by slower than you would’ve liked it to, the ticking of the clock louder in your ears than it should’ve been.

The constant flirtatious advances from Brock don’t stop despite constant rejections from your side. It’s a normal day really - it doesn’t feel like it but maybe, just  _maybe_ it’s you. Sure, running into strangers was a constant occurrence in New York but there’d been  _something_ about him that caught your eye.

The stranger remains fresh in your mind, his curious gaze burned into your mind. And maybe it’s a little strange that you found yourself so taken with someone that you’d never spoken to before, much less even  _seen._

The moment that the clock strikes six, you’re out of your seat, packing your bag quickly and rushing out the door after blowing a quick goodbye kiss to your friend Natasha, the receptionist.

The weird thing about curiosity is that it’s a sort of lingering, manifesting thing that lurks in the corners of your mind, overwhelming every thought you have of questions unanswered.

You don’t quite realize how hard you try to catch a glimpse of the man again, trying to place the same man that you’d seen that morning. You’re greeted only by the drab mixes of grey winter jackets.

Your scarf hangs uselessly from your hand, reminding you too much of  _him_. Maybe more than it should.

The sea of commuters is a constant struggle of pushing bodies and hot air. Bucky can’t help but wonder if all of this is actually worth it for seeing one girl. Of course, that thought is immediately dispelled, replacing itself with a  _wonderful_ curiosity as to the woman’s whereabouts.

He finds himself scanning the crowd for the same maroon scarf that had caught his eye the day before - the same woman that had intruded upon every one of his thoughts the day before. Steve had been the first to notice his distracted gaze, obviously lost in deep thought - the question of what about, however, had been narrowly avoided.

There is another question that remains, though - could the woman had been someone that he’d seen before? Why hadn’t he paid such close attention to her before?

Bucky really can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips, shaking his head in amusement at how engrossed he’d become with a woman he hadn’t even met.

It’s another cold morning that he finds himself at the station, the snow creating dirty puddles on the ground that ruined formals when accidentally stepped in.

Walking around New York is the last thing on his mind, his heart rate beginning to pick up as he nears the spot where he first had noticed her - perhaps consciously, perhaps not he’d begun to refer to it as “their” spot although it didn’t belong to them any more than they belonged to each other.

There’s something off about the way that the train station feels. The thoughts and general clumsiness of everyone’s rush remain in the air but it seems as though something’s not _right_.

Today was no different than other days, of course. The sun still rose, bed sheets were still terribly inviting, breakfast still bland and the station was still as busy as ever with announcements for “minor” delays ringing out over the P.A.

Thing is, he hasn’t seen her a while. He’d been quick to dismiss the ‘not meant to be’ bullshit that he’d thought up, much too intent on seeing the woman and this time actually  _talking_  to her in lieu of standing and smiling at her like an idiot.

Words really can’t explain the feelings that he’s developed for this woman - it’s  _stupid_ really, how his heart begins to flutter at the mere thought of her smile, just a little crooked, imperfect but genuine. And maybe it’s utterly and amazingly idiotic - a feeling he’s not at all used to but  _that’s what love is._

It’s the feeling of drowning and coming up for a breath of fresh air at the same time and it’s  _extraordinary_ , never the same, always surprising.

So that day, when he’s walking home defeated at not having seen her that day, he’s got his head in the clouds, completely lost in thoughts of  _what if -_ he nearly walks into  _her_.

She’s standing there rubbing her head from the force with which he’d knocked into her - that’s not to say she still doesn’t look beautiful, looking up at  _whoever the hell_  had crashed into her, she looks about ready to cuss him out.

Now, anyone with a logical sense of how to respond to accidentally bumping into a stranger would’ve asked about said stranger’s state. A simple  _are you okay?_ Something entirely different leaves Bucky’s lips as he sees just who he’d wanted to see -

**“Who are you?”**

Yeah, he’s definitely not the same James Buchanan Barnes that he’d thought himself to be.

But her laugh?

Maybe, just  _maybe_ he doesn’t need to be the same James Buchanan Barnes.


	20. Adopting a dog with Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanons on how adopting a dog with Bucky Barnes would be like. 
> 
> Warnings: fluff

  * he’d like to blame it on steve really cause steve’s the one that first takes him to the animal shelter as a ‘distraction from the strangeness of the modern world’
  * and of course, he’s  _super_ clear about the fact that they’re  _not_ getting a dog ‘cause there isn’t space in the tower for a dog cause tony would kill them if anything important was to break
  * there’s an unintended event in which steve finds bucky in the back of the animal shelter, sitting crossed legged on the floor with this stupidly dopey smile on his face as a three-leggedpuppy sniffs at his metal arm - and steve swears to god that he’s never seen his best friend happier
  * so it doesn’t come as much of a surprise when the two find themselves seriously considering adopting the little guy - all remarks of ‘oh you don’t want ‘im, he’s the runt of the litter’ go unacknowledged with a glare of whoever said  _anything_
  * then comes the issue of tony, he’s very against the idea of having  _anything_ so small, so fluffy leaving its mark on the tower and for a while, he’s got everyone convinced that he  _really_ hates the puppy - until they seem him  _dancing_ with it in the kitchen as black sabbath plays in the background
  * and then, nothing’s left to do but tell you bc as much as you love dogs, you’ve never had the chance to actually have one of your own ‘cause you’ve always felt as if that’d have been too much responsibility and god forbid anything happens to him
  * the puppy all but attacks you with kisses when he meets you and you’re caught a little off guard by just how much the little guy likes you and then when you realize that the pup’s missing a limb just like bucky and just how  _happy_ bucky is, you’re all for keeping him
  * that does mean, however, that you have to decide on an actual name for him and can’t keep calling him ‘little thief’ every time he barks cause he’s stolen your heart so quickly and so easily
  * there’s a lot of arguing about what it should be, at one point ‘bucky jr.’ is suggested and of course, bucky being bucky can’t help but say that there’s already a bucky jr before winking at you (he gets hit with a pillow)
  * you decide on ‘storm’ cause he’d definitely created one in the tower but hey, there’s clear skies after storms and he’s definitely given that to you guys
  * he’s got as much energy as a firework - sometimes to the point that it tires  _Bucky_ out. and kudos to him because it takes a lot to tire a goddamn super soldier out
  * tony, being the extravagant genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist he is, ends up making storm a prosthetic that matches bucky’s and it takes a lot out of you to not call him bucky jr.
  * of course, there’s the matter of bucky’s nightmares - by the time that you’re rushing to his side, storm’s already there, his wet nose nuzzling into bucky as bucky’s arms wrap around storm’s body, salty tears wetting his fur. 
  * the two of you spend nearly every waking moment with storm, i mean it’s not like he wakes the two of you up by jumping onto the bed despite having been told not to and greeting the two of you with an early morning taste of dog slobber - you really can’t find it in yourself to be mad at him
  * storm becomes a routine part of your lives - sitting attentively in the kitchen when you make breakfast with bucky sharing kisses that storm often gets jealous of (until he gets his own)
  * it takes a bit for storm to learn not to interrupt, even after he’s grown, often sneaking under the table to rest his head in your lap when you’re working and staring up at you with those pleading eyes that are just begging you to come outside for a game of catch - you really can’t say no. 
  * bucky’s out there too, playing a game of extreme frisbee with sam and steve and just as he’s about to catch one that’s thrown at him, he’s knocked out of the way and onto his back, all the air going out of him as his head hits the ground
  * he opens his eyes to storm and you leaning over him with the frisbee in storm’s mouth. and maybe it’s in that moment that he realizes just how much he loves you, both of you with the concern shining in your eyes and storm dropping the frisbee to lick his face - he blacks out seconds later
  * the next weeks are spent taking care of bucky thru the time his concussion takes to heal - it’s often a lot of cuddling and reprimanding him for staring at the tv or any screen too long. 
  * it ends in a habit of reading a book to him every night, bucky’s hands playing with your hair as you lean back against him and storm’s weight in your lap
  * bucky spends his mornings with a dazed smile on his face, watching the peaceful expression on your lips and shifting down to storm’s head resting on your stomach
  * _god he’s so in love_
  * he proposes to you the next morning over breakfast, casually slipping it into a conversation that you two should get married
  * you scream
  * storm rushes into the room with his ears perked up and body taut in case of any danger - he’s ecstatic when you shower him with kisses, barking and overall just being super energetic 
  * _“I thought I was the one supposed to be kissed?”  
_
  * _“Shut up or I’ll take it back.”_
  * storm’s a lot more helpful during the wedding than you would’ve expected - all the children  _love_ him, chasing him around as he runs circles around the lawn of the venue
  * for once, he sits calmly as you two exchange vows and then - “you may kiss the bride” and storm’s off, rushing towards the two of you and showering the both of you in kisses
  * the marriage officiant actually screams as storm barrels towards you (he’s scared of dogs
  * bucky does protest that he’s the one supposed to do the kissing, but the one kiss you do give him to seal your vows does shut him up
  * he’s the one that catches the bouquet when you throw it - you’re glad you have a picture of that moment, it’s good blackmail material considering everyone else’s faces in the picture.
  * you share a long look with bucky, breaking into laughter




	21. she touches you like you're fragile, and if you break, you won't be able put yourself together again [Bucky Barnes]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Off a Tumblr prompt list. (Bucky Barnes x Reader)
> 
> Warnings: fluff, pining

It doesn’t take very much convincing to keep telling himself that you’re only coming in every day help Tony around a little in the lab. He tells himself this ‘cause it’s  _easy_ to believe that there’s nothing between the two of you and that’s just  _convenient_ that you happen to be an expert in the field of mechanical -  _however the fuck you pronounce the science -_ he tries to convince himself that he’s not capable of  _whatever_ the fluttering of his heart meant. 

He’s lost far too much - he can’t risk this, this  _stupid_ little thing that he’d sure is definitely more than ‘ _just a crush’_  like he’d whispered to himself in front of the mirror at two in the fucking morning when he’d awoken from another dream, another  _nightmare_ because he’d found himself helpless at the fact that he  _wasn’t_ able to save you.  _Fuck,_ it’s definitely more than a simple, stupid crush. 

Bucky wants to think that it’s a sick lie that his mind’s convinced him to believe - the mutual attraction between the two of you placed there specifically to bring back memories of the life that he’d craved before the whole shit show with Hydra - the whole white picket fence, a dog, two children bullshit that he knows he  _can’t_ have any more. 

 _He can’t be in love_. 

It  _has_ to be nothing. 

His eyes watch your every move with a piqued curiosity - as if you’re an riddle trapped within an enigma and he needs his full concentration to figure out whatever the hell this  _thing_ between the two of you is. 

It takes everything that he’s got in him to stay relaxed as your fingers brush so fucking  _gently_ against his metal arm like  _you’re_ the one afraid to break him and suddenly the lab counter feels too cool against the back of his thighs. You’re saying something - he knows ‘cause your lips are moving - but he’s not quite  _listening_. 

He knows that it’s probably something important that’s leaving your lips but he can’t find it in himself to focus on anything but the curve of your lips and the brightness of your eyes as your fingers move slowly over his knuckles - he wishes that it weren’t so hard to breathe. 

For a moment, he wishes that he wishes that he remembered how to speak, how to interact normally with a woman. Of course, a woman that he felt something  _more_ for but still a woman. 

He’d be damned if he didn’t admit that he’d have liked to kiss her like he’s _never_  kissed anyone before….love like he’s never loved anyone before.

And then your fingers slide up his arm, tapping at the plate to test something that he doesn’t quite understand himself - he freezes. You look up at him with an  _innocent,_  unbroken look you in your eye and there’s a stray strand of hair in your face and your bottom lip is held hostage between your teeth in concentration - you’re asking him that looks like ‘everything okay?’ and it takes  _everything_  he’s got not to just lift his hand up to your brush the hair out of your face. 

He nods.

Somewhere between the stolen glances and the fleeting smiles - he’s allowed himself to fall. 

_Hard._

He admits to that now.

And yet, there’s a little cautious voice in the back of his head, telling him over and over again what it’s like to love someone and what it’s like to  _lose_ themjust as quickly - maybe one day, it’s a pain that he’ll allow himself to heal from, that’s he’ll allow himself to _forget_  but for now, he offers you a small, gracious smile.


	22. Almost [Tony Stark]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Almost is the saddest word in the entire vernacular. It’s just there but not quite. So close to something that could be. But sometimes, almost can be happy. (Tony Stark x Reader)
> 
> Warnings: fluff

The saddest word in the whole wide world is the word ‘almost.’

It’s so close and so far to what could’ve been. And it hurts because you can see what you want but you can’t touch it. It’s right there, inches from your fingertips and you can feel the rising, crippling want to hold it. But you can’t.

Anthony Edward Stark is a man of ambition. Broken, beaten down and abused but ambitious. And he loves. By god, he loves so much.

On the outside, he may look like a narcissistic bastard, too drunk on his 1965 Remy Martin cognac to give a fuck about any of the others at his annual parties.

This is a lie.

And those he loves will know it.

Because his smiles are just that much brighter, conversations that much easier and his eyes, his beautiful chocolate eyes that would darken in anger, turning into the slick stones that sailors fear to run into when the ocean is in a rage at the first sign of danger.

Because everytime that something endangers the people he loves, Anthony Edward Stark will put himself before them. His life for theirs.

But who notices? No one.

They all see the exterior of a man with so much more depth than he cares to show. They don’t see the darkness of his eyes or the bruises covering his body because he fell out of his bed, screaming from a recurring nightmare or the way his heart races, palms sweating profusely as he curls up into a small ball in his lab, frame shaking and his breaths short and shallow.

They only see the genius, the playboy, the billionaire, the philanthropist but they do not see the man.

And frankly, it scares Tony on an extent he’s never felt before.

Not even when he  _almost_ died.

Because even if he doesn’t want to admit it, he wishes it wasn’t  _almost._

~~~

Tony likes human contact.

He likes hugs. Especially from you.

Because they’re  _warm_ and he feels this sense of  _safety_ that he’s never felt before.

The main reason he likes them is that you hold him for as long as he needs it and you don’t let go. At first, he was confused because the contact was so prolonged. Your reassurance that you’d always be there for him was enough to dispel those doubts, however momentarily.

Ever since that moment, he had come to you, not caring if you saw him with his eyes bloodshot and a fresh bottle of Tobalá mezcal in his hands.

And then there was one day when he found you, face buried in your pillows and body shaking, soft pleas of  _No_ leaving your lips in a continuous succession.

It was simple really, a decision that didn’t even take the span of a heartbeat to make. Tony pushed aside the emotions he was feeling, coaxing you into his arms and just holding you. Like you always would for him.

Things had changed since then. The two of you had become virtually inseparable.

But it was with his soft promises, and gentle forehead kisses that you realized maybe it was more than friendship.

Because you realize that Tony is not the man that everyone reduces him to. He is a man of depth, of an amazing complexity that has and will continue to baffle you. Still, he is a man. An extraordinary and beautiful man.

With your long hugs and a lingering scent of something that smelled distinctly like a safe alcove, Tony realizes that maybe, just maybe he’s capable of being something more than the drunk idiot he’s categorized himself to be. He realizes that he’s capable of love.

~~~

But sometimes, just sometimes,  _almost_ is one of the happiest words in the whole wide world.

Because Tony Stark is a man who only  _almost_ lost everything.

He still has his heart. He still has you.  And his smile is still bright.

He  _almost_ didn’t realize that he loved you.

But he’s glad he did.


	23. Home [Tony Stark]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, home isn't a place. It's a person.
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings: fluff

The saddest word in the whole wide world is the word ‘almost.’

It’s so close and so far to what could’ve been. And it hurts because you can see what you want but you can’t touch it. It’s right there, inches from your fingertips and you can feel the rising, crippling want to hold it. But you can’t.

Anthony Edward Stark is a man of ambition. Broken, beaten down and abused but ambitious. And he loves. By god, he loves so much.

On the outside, he may look like a narcissistic bastard, too drunk on his 1965 Remy Martin cognac to give a fuck about any of the others at his annual parties.

This is a lie.

And those he loves will know it.

Because his smiles are just that much brighter, conversations that much easier and his eyes, his beautiful chocolate eyes that would darken in anger, turning into the slick stones that sailors fear to run into when the ocean is in a rage at the first sign of danger.

Because everytime that something endangers the people he loves, Anthony Edward Stark will put himself before them. His life for theirs.

But who notices? No one.

They all see the exterior of a man with so much more depth than he cares to show. They don’t see the darkness of his eyes or the bruises covering his body because he fell out of his bed, screaming from a recurring nightmare or the way his heart races, palms sweating profusely as he curls up into a small ball in his lab, frame shaking and his breaths short and shallow.

They only see the genius, the playboy, the billionaire, the philanthropist but they do not see the man.

And frankly, it scares Tony to an extent he’s never felt before.

Not even when he  _almost_ died.

Because even if he doesn’t want to admit it, he wishes it wasn’t  _almost._

~~~

Tony likes human contact.

He likes hugs. Especially from you.

Because they’re  _warm_ and he feels this sense of  _safety_ that he’s never felt before.

The main reason he likes them is that you hold him for as long as he needs it and you don’t let go. At first, he was confused because the contact was so prolonged. Your reassurance that you’d always be there for him was enough to dispel those doubts, however momentarily.

Ever since that moment, he had come to you, not caring if you saw him with his eyes bloodshot and a fresh bottle of Tobalá mezcal in his hands.

And then there was one day when he found you, face buried in your pillows and body shaking, soft pleas of  _No_ leaving your lips in a continuous succession.

It was simple really, a decision that didn’t even take the span of a heartbeat to make. Tony pushed aside the emotions he was feeling, coaxing you into his arms and just holding you. Like you always would for him.

Things had changed since then. The two of you had become virtually inseparable.

But it was with his soft promises, and gentle forehead kisses that you realized maybe it was more than friendship.

Because you realize that Tony is not the man that everyone reduces him to. He is a man of depth, of an amazing complexity that has and will continue to baffle you. Still, he is a man. An extraordinary and beautiful man.

With your long hugs and a lingering scent of something that smelled distinctly like a safe alcove, Tony realizes that maybe, just maybe he’s capable of being something more than the drunk idiot he’s categorized himself to be. He realizes that he’s capable of love.

~~~

But sometimes, just sometimes,  _almost_ is one of the happiest words in the whole wide world.

Because Tony Stark is a man who only  _almost_ lost everything.

He still has his heart. He still has you.  And his smile is still bright.

He  _almost_ didn’t realize that he loved you.

But he’s glad he did.


	24. Snowfall [T'challa Udaku]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s never seen snow before. She’d do anything to see it. (T'Challa Udaku x Reader)
> 
> Warnings: angst

**_Wakanda_ **

If there was one thing that you longed to see more than the occasional smile on T'Challa’s face, it was the almost comical thing called snow.

Really, no one understood your obsession with the frigid, seemingly hostile precipitation that the Wakandans had never seen due to the constant heat of their country.

T'Challa did. Because for every mention of the cold matter, he only saw the warm genuineness of your smile. He only saw the sudden brightness of your eyes, a welcome change from the constant stark, calculating eyes of his Dora Milaje.

He would often come to you after tedious days of audiences with foreign dignitaries, his muscles stiff and movements uncharacteristically uncertain.

His request would be simple, “Tell me about snow.” And you would. Without question, you would, paying no heed to his relaxed posture as his gaze landed on your smile.

~ ~ ~

**_Lagos_ **

“He knew we knew you. Your pal, your buddy, your Bucky.”

Even with the Captain’s wide array of skills, especially those of managing his emotions, anyone would’ve been able to sense the falter in his voice.

“What did you say?”

Rumlow’s lips quirked up in a smirk. A  _triumphant_ smirk. He’d found the Captain’s weakness.

“He remembered you. I was there. He got all weepy about it. Till they put his brain back in the blender,” A silver of Rumlow’s teeth stayed visible as his smirk widened at the memory of Bucky’s pain that resurfaced. “He wanted you to know something. He said to me, "Please tell Rogers,” “When you got to go, you got to go.” And you’re coming with me.“

Steve Rogers, the man who believed himself to be no more important than a mere nobody from Brooklyn stood frozen as Rumlow’s hand went to the trigger of the bomb embedded in his vest.

Before the flames could reach Steve, a field of red energy surrounded Rumlow’s burning body, suffocating his cries of anguish in a cocoon of flame and anger.

The Captain’s muscles stayed tense, either in an attempt to pull on a disguise of strength or  _tense_  like a someone cornered in the presence of danger.  

A loud crash echoed as Rumlow crashed into a building, Wanda’s forcefield dissipating into thin air as her hand closed over her mouth, muffling her momentary cry of surprise.

The Captain’s eyes widened fractionally, his jaw clenching as he swallowed down the fear blossoming in his chest.

"Oh my… Sam. We need… Fire and rescue, on the south side of the building. We got to get up here.”

~~~

**_Wakanda_ **

The news of the incident was quick to reach King T'Chaka. And to say that he was angry would’ve been an understatement considering his heavy tread, the heels of his boots clicking angrily against the floor, echoing so loudly throughout the palace.

His Dora Milaje knew to stand out of his way as he rushed past them. Of course, no one besides T'Challa dared to question his mood.

“Father, you cannot do this to the people. A king must be strong. If they see you like this, the country will be in a state of turmoil.” He said, his accented voice gentle as he repeated the advice he had gotten so often from his father.

His words are enough to make T'Chaka freeze, however, his back still stiff and jaw still clenched. Not a word left his lips.

“You must consider the consequences if you act irrationally.”

As angry as T'Chaka was, Wakandans tend to think before they act. This was true, especially for the King.

He was never one to act irrationally. Except when the safety of his people came into question. Then his facade often tended to fade, however fractionally.

It was then that one of the King’s guards had stepped forward, passing the king a message that he had received a call.

~~~

**_Vienna_ **

How you had managed T'Challa to let you come to the UN Assembly, even you didn’t know.  All you remembered was that it had consisted of following him around the palace, no more than one step behind him and repeating the same question over every time that his eyes had met yours.

But when he saw the brightness of your smile as soon as he had relented to your requests, he’d been happy that he had been the cause of that smile with nothing but a simple confirmation.

You were fairly silent as you stuck by T'Challa’s side as he walked around the conference hall, practicing the diplomacy that he didn’t care to encourage.

Your steps faltered, however momentarily as he approached a red-haired woman, the light filtering through the windows making it look as if triumphant flames were dancing atop her head.

You offered her a small smile which she returned as T'Challa greeted her. You whispered something in his ear about finding King T'Chaka before darting off in your own direction, eyes taking in the many different men and women of different nationalities walking and talking.

You had found King T'Chaka moments later, notifying him that the meeting would begin in just a minute, conveying information that you had heard from some of the chatter filling the room.

“I supposed neither of us is used to the spotlight.”

“Well, it’s not always so flattering.” She replied immediately.

“You seem to be doing alright so far. Considering your last trip to Capitol Hill. I wouldn’t think you would be particularly comfortable in this company.”

“Well, I’m not.” Her lips quirked upwards.

“That alone, makes me glad you are here, Ms. Romanoff. ”

“Why? You don’t approve of all of this?” She asked T'Challa.

“The Accords, yes. The politics, not really. Two people, in a room, can get more done than a hundred.”

“Unless you need to move a piano.” Leading him back to T'Challa, you replied at the exact same time as King T'Chaka.

He cracked a gentle smile, both at you and at T'Challa.

“Papa.”

“King T'Chaka. Please, allow me to apologize for what happened in Nigeria.” Ms. Romanoff’s head tilted downwards momentarily in a show of respect which the king nodded at.

“Thank you. Thank you for agreeing to all this. I’m sad to hear that Captain Rogers will not be joining us today.” You perked up at the mention of the Captain. After all, you had managed to pry out the information about the incident in Lagos from T'Challa.

“Yes, so am I.” 

“Everyone please be seated,” A voice announced, echoing throughout the hall, “The assembly is now in session.”

T'Challa’s back straightened.

“That is the future calling. Such a pleasure. Thank you.”

T'Chaka only smiled widely at his son, soon to be king, and soon to be the bearer of the Panther helm.

“For a man who disapproves of diplomacy, you’re getting quite good at it.”

“I’m happy, father.”

With relaxed postures, you and T'Challa had lead King T'Chaka to the podium at the center of the room. The both of you took a stand at opposites sides, scanning the room.

The room exploded in applause, seeing that the king had arrived.

“Thank you. Thank you.” T'Chaka began. As the room quieted down after a moment of thunderous applause, he began talking once more.

“When a stolen Wakandan vibranium was used to make a terrible weapon, we, in Wakanda, were forced to question our legacy. Those men and women killed in Nigeria were part of a good will mission from a country too long in the shuttles. We will not, however, let misfortune drive us back. We will fight to improve the world we wish to join. I am grateful to the Avengers for supporting this initiative. Wakanda is proud to extend it’s hand in peace.”  

It was then that from the corner of your eye that you had noticed commotion outside. A man rushed away from a truck, shouting for everyone to clear the area, shouting something about a  _bomb._

“EVERYBODY GET DOWN!” You shouted, lunging for the king just as T'Challa did. You fell atop the two of them, shielding them with your body.

The first thing you felt was the burning inferno, sending electric shocks of pain up your body as you were thrown off the two of them from the force of the blast.  Your head hit the burnt remains of the podium, your vision dancing with black spots as you watched the ash rain down from the ceiling, a slight breeze making it dance as it fluttered down. Like snow.

The last thing you felt were T'Challa’s arms around you, cradling your body against his, thumbs wiping away the blood leaking from your forehead.

You heard his panicked voice, for once shaky and unsure.

You only smiled at the ash raining down, “T'Challa, look it’s snowing.”


	25. Helpless [Logan Howlett]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s been through a lot. He’ll never change. (Logan Howlett x Reader)
> 
> Warnings: angst, pining

Logan is a lone wolf, all pun intended really.

He tends to push away the people he loves. Some say it’s instinct, others claim it’s because he’s lost so much in the long years which he’s endured.

When Logan first sees you, he faintly remembers that his hands are shaking. And that he’s sweating profusely despite the bar he was in being air-conditioned.

The first thing that catches him off guard, something that never happens, is your hair. All he feels is this  _unstoppable_  urge to run his calloused hands through the silken strands.

And then it’s your smile. Because he swears that it’s the brightest thing he’s ever seen in the barrage of shit that he calls his life. And he can’t help but try (and fail) to stop the upward tug of his lips. But the smile on his face is  _genuine._ It’s nothing like what Charles or  _any_ of the other get. It’s small, but it’s there.

And then his dark eyes meet yours. He swears his heart skips a few beats. No, no, not like every bit of cheesy fanfiction claims. He swears that all he can hear is his heart thudding like a war drum.

His gaze flickers lower, to your cheeks. He bites down on the inside of his cheek because there’s nothing more that he wants to kiss them, whispering promises of how he’d never let you go.

It’s then that he realizes that what he’s doing is wrong.

Everyone that he’s ever loved has winded up dead, indirectly or directly by his doing. It’s then that Logan realizes that he can’t break something so beautiful.

It’s then that Logan realizes that he’s love. And he can’t do anything to stop how he feels.

So when he forces himself to get off the seat and leave the bar with quick, steady strides with a falter invisible to the untrained eyes, Logan knows that this is his life. He’ll always be helpless.


	26. Worst Timing [Logan Howlett]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan finds the worst time to tell you he loves you. (Logan Howlett x Reader)
> 
> Warnings: fluff, swearing

Logan’s arm was tightly wrapped around you, his chest to your back and his breath coming in soft puffs as he cradled your frame against his. Your eyes stayed closed as he pulled you close, gently kissing the top of your head.

Lightly, you stirred, moving impossibly closer to his warmth. He couldn’t help the gentle smile that tugged at his lips as he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his eyes scanning your serene face as you slept.

He took his time memorizing every detail of your face from the adorable way that your mouth stayed opened as you slept, your messy hair and the way that you curled up into a fetal position against the warmth coming off his body.

Logan’s lips pressed another soft kiss to the crown of your head. You stirred once more.

“Stop moving.” You demanded sleepily, turning over on your side to face him.

You huddled close to his chest, burying your face in the material of his shirt. A gentle, yet sleepy smile tugged at your lips as you heard him chuckle.

“You awake, sweetheart?” His gruff voice echoed through the quiet room, the only other sound being your steady breathing.

“No.” You mumbled, your voice still drowsy.

“Why’re talking then?” He questioned, raising an eyebrow with his smile only widening.

“Because you won’t shut the fuck up.”

He didn’t respond, his smile now a full-blown grin as he dug his fingers into your side. You shrieked, trying to swat him off, now fully awake.

“Logan!” You shouted, struggling against his quick hands as his fingers continued moving. You couldn’t stop laughing, tears forming in the corner of your eyes. His laughter mingled with yours, as he finally relented, his hands stopping to rest on your waist, his body now hovering over yours.

“Damn you.” You said, your chest heaving as you attempted to catch your breath. He only smiled down at you, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips, which only succeeded in stealing your breath away.

You returned the gentle kiss immediately, your lips moving languidly against his. His hand traveled upwards, now cupping your face, his thumb resting against your cheekbone.

Minutes later, your lips parted, your face hot and your lips slightly swollen from the lengthy kiss.

“I gotta tell you something, darling.”

“What’s that?”

“I love you.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that burst from your lips. And Logan couldn’t help the flash of worry that crossed his eyes.

“Let me get this straight, you woke me up at….” You turned your head to the bedside table to look at the clock, “3 o'clock in the morning, to tell me that you love me?”

“I did.” He rose an eyebrow, following your eyes.

“I have something to tell you too.”

“And that is?”

“Even if I love you, I love sleep more than you. Go the fuck back to sleep.”


	27. The Fall of an Angel [Matt Murdock]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He loved to hear her sing, but he never knew the reason behind her heartbreaking tunes. (Matt Murdock x Reader)
> 
> Warnings: feelz, angst, fluff, familial death, alcoholism, smoking

Matt slowly lowered himself to the floor of his living room. The sun shone brightly through the sheer blinds and on the rough floor under his legs, framing the muscled structure of his back. He straightened his back into a meditative position, his hands resting lightly on his knees. Every little movement ached until he settled into a relaxed position and forced his mind to push the pain away. 

He wanted to erase the sharp jabs of pain that cut across his nose, it having been broken from a recent brawl. He wanted to erase those along with the fractures of his ribs, the purple bruising he could feel across the expanse of them. He wanted to erase what he could of the searing, inferno of pain in his lower back, the ache in his shoulders and the migraine that lapped at his senses like dry grass that had just caught fire.

Just then, soft notes flitted through the air, bringing a small smile to Matt’s lips.

This was everything he looked forward to.

Your soft voice echoed through the walls of the apartment, carrying melodies of promise through the air.

He relaxed visibly, a small smile gracing his features as he took a deep breath, his eyes opening.

Ever since you had moved in next door, courtesy of Foggy Nelson (Who may or may not have put up an advertisement implying the vacancy of an apartment), he’d been calm. He’d been  _happy_.

~ ~ ~

The first time you had met Matthew Murdock, you’d crashed into him. With a box full of books. Successfully dropping an encyclopedia on his head. And then proceeded to scream bloody murder at him for being an idiot and not watching where he was going. 

…And then apologizing profusely, your cheeks flushed and your eyes wild when you’d realized his ‘disability.’ Finally, you’d called him, “Mr. Nelson.”

He had broken down into a fit of laughter, leaving you standing confused and exhausted in the hallway.

Foggy had shown up moments later, wondering what the hell the ruckus was about. At the sight of a heaving Matt and a slightly flustered you, he’d introduced himself, “Foggy Nelson.”

Oh.

Biting your lip, you stiffened, “(Y/N) (Y/L/N).” You had managed your voice barely an octave above a whisper. But he had heard. Of course, he had. A smile had stayed on his face, your name repeating in his head like the prayers that accumulated in his mind, begging forgiveness from the Lord for what he would do.

“Introduce yourself, dumbass,” Foggy growled, elbowing Matt gently.

He only smiled, “I think she knows who I am now.” He’d said simply, the smile morphing into a slight smirk at the increase in your heart rate.

You took a shaky breath, forcing your eyes away from the sloping planes of his face.

Matt, noticing your obvious discomfort had offered his assistance in moving your belongings in. You only shook your head in refusal, realizing, after a few moments of silence that he couldn’t have seen. Your face grew hot as he grinned, knowing what had happened, “No, I’m fine. Thanks.” You replied quickly, stumbling over your words.

Foggy rolled his eyes, simply taking the box of books from your hand and walking towards your new home before a single word of protest could leave your lips. You took stiff, uncertain steps away from Matt, hurrying after Foggy.

And then, you’d met Karen, who’d been dusting the window sills of your apartment in anticipation of your arrival. You’d become quick friends with her, the two of you bonding over simple things, like your love for books.

~ ~ ~

The first time Matt had heard your voice, he had been covered in blood. And bruises. And cuts. He also had a blade sticking out of his gut.

But he’d smiled.

He’d thought that his prayers had finally been answered. His angel had finally come.

And then he’d heard a shriek as you fell down from the ladder which you had been trying to get a book off your bookshelf from.

A sharp hiss of pain escaped his mouth as he got off the couch in worry. Foggy had pushed him down harshly, glaring at him and demanding to know what the hell had happened.

“Shit happened.” He replied, earning the middle finger from Foggy as he began to clean Matt’s wounds.

Matt had fallen asleep listening to your voice sing words full of a new world of hope.

~ ~ ~

Since the first day you’d met him, you had never dared to call him by his first name. It was always Mr. Murdock.

Karen had called you out on it. Multiple times.

“I think I just found one of (Y/N)’s kinks.” She teased, passing you a beer as you relaxed in a booth at Josie’s with the trio.

“Yes, of course. Nothing gets me going like respect.” You quipped back without thinking.

This had caused both Foggy and Karen to choke on their beers. Matt had laughed.

“Oh, so you don’t respect me?!” Foggy demanded after the initial burn of the alcohol going down his throat.

“Was that a comeback?!” Karen had demanded at the same time.

You stayed quiet after that, sipping your beer nonchalantly as if you’d never opened your mouth.

Karen had only stared at you in disbelief. Foggy drank his whiskey angrily, glaring at you. You offered him a small, innocent smile, raising your beer can slightly in a mock salute.

Moments later, your phone had shattered the playful silence. Looking at the caller ID, you’d simply stood up. “I’ve gotta go,” You said, pulling on your jacket and offering them a forced but well-practiced smile.

“Secret boyfriend?” Karen had teased. You gulped, your posture no longer relaxed. Matt could feel the change in the air around you.

“Something of the sort.” You said simply, your hand tightly clutching the phone in your jacket pocket.

Foggy smirked at you, Karen gently nudging you with her elbow. Matt simply rose an eyebrow, his expression stoic despite the way your words tore at his heart. Crumpling it like paper. Dousing it with gasoline. Burning it with flame. Drowning it in salt water. Then crushing it under foot.

You only offered him a nod, your heart threatening to beat out of your chest.

Without another word, you were rushing out of Josie’s and outside to hail a cab.

The drive to the hospital had been quick, you’d given the driver a fifty, despite the short mileage.

Running inside, you’d checked in at the front desk. The same directions every time. Nothing had changed. Second floor, third door to the right of the vending machine.

Moments later, you found yourself sitting next to the bed of your brother.

“Hey,” You said, softly kissing his forehead. He offered you a weak smile, reaching for your hand with what little strength he could muster up.

“I missed you.” He said, his voice broken and exhausted from the drugs running through his veins.

“I missed you more.” You replied, taking your hand in his and squeezing it lightly. He squeezed back, but you didn’t feel it. The grip was too light, too weak.

“Will you sing to me?” He asked softly. You laughed lightly in relief.

“Of course.” You smiled, your voice soft as you began to sing a calming lullaby. It was one that your mother used to sing to you. You knew why he asked you to sing. It made him happy. It reminded him of life before cancer. When the grass was still green and the sky was still bright and full of promise. It reminded him of  _home._ Where there was a guarantee that you would be there, a constant presence in the turmoil of life.

As the song ended, you felt his hand fall limp in yours. Immediately assuming the worst, you checked his pulse. A short but soft cry of relief flew past your lips. Blinking away the tears that had accumulated, you kissed his forehead one last time before drawing away.

Your hands quaked by your side, despite you trying to stop them by clenching them into tight fists.

You went off to find your brother’s usual doctor, successfully managing to corner him in his office.

“You came.” He said simply, not looking up from the CT scan files lining his desk.

“Why wouldn’t I?” You asked, struggling to keep your voice steady. He didn’t answer.

“Please, sit,” He requested. His voice was rough, an undertone of pity lining his words. You did as he asked, knowing that your knees would no longer hold you up as you  _knew_ the bad news that was coming.

“He’s getting worse.” He said, his eyes meeting yours. “There’s nothing more we can do.” You held back a sob, your frame shaking.

“Please.” You begged, every form of desperation lacing your voice.

“I’m sorry.” He said, showing you the scan of your brother’s brain. You knew by now which was the brain matter and which were the cancerous cells of destruction.

You said nothing more as you walked out of his office, out the main doors of the hospital. You didn’t call a cab, tears streaming down your face as you walked back to the law firm.

The rain began steadily, dousing your clothes and making your hair droop in your face. Your steps faltered as you got closer and closer home.

You walked in the front door of the building, your clothes leaving wet stains on the hardwood floor.

The door of Murdock and Nelson flew open, filling the dark hallway with light.

“Mr. Murdock,” You said simply, your voice strained as you saw how stiff he looked with the light illuminating his frame.

Matt could hear the steady drip of the water drops that fell to the floor, falling from the tip of your nose. And echoing,  _echoing_ so loudly in his ears.

Your breaths came in short gasps as you tried to keep yourself together, your knees threatening to give way underneath you.

“What happened?” He asked simply, his voice trying to reassure you despite the way his heart broke once more.

“I’m fine.” You replied. Even though he hadn’t asked, “I’m okay.”

You struggled at the door, your shaking fingers unable to find a grip on the door knob.

~ ~ ~

It was the second month in a row that Matt hadn’t heard your voice echoing across the hallway from next door.

Ever since that day he had found you dripping wet in the hallway, he’d been worried.

You never even said 'Hello’ to him. It was always a simple, strained, “Mr. Murdock.”

You no longer showed up to Josie’s to hang out with the crew. Your voice always remained shaky and cracking from trying to hold back the deluge of tears.

Karen was the first to confront you about it, demanding to know what was going on and consoling you with hugs that you returned half-heartedly. Of course, she didn’t find out. You knew how to keep a secret.

Foggy was the next, showing up right as you were packing your clothes into the small suitcase you had used when you had first arrived. You had been fully ready to leave everything,  _everything_ behind. He had tried to stop you, blocking the doorway of your apartment, his words doing anything and everything they could to get you to stay. You had only said two words to him, “I’m sorry.”

Matt had found you at your worst.

As soon as he had swung open the door of your apartment, the pale, billowing smoke of cigarettes had knocked him back, coaxing a tremor of cracking coughs from the depths of his throat.

He simply waved it away, stepping into your apartment with a hand clamped over his mouth. The next trap was the poisonous stench of stale Vodka.

His heart rate picked up, his worry for you increasing tenfold. You didn’t notice his violation into your home. Your head rested against the arm of the couch, your breathing coming in shallow gasps due to your session of uncontrollable sobbing.

Your hand tightened around the bottle of Grey Goose as you raised it to your lips, taking a long sip that left you choking on the uncomfortable taste.

You hated the taste and the sting of alcohol, but you  _needed_ to drink. You needed to get the image of how lifeless your brother had looked when the heart monitor next to his bed flatlined as you sang a soft lullaby to him mere days ago.

His condition had only decreased since your audience with the doctor. Ever since, you had gone to see him every day, no heed paid to the weather.

You sang to him every single damn day. Hoping,  _praying_ that it would miraculously give him the strength to fight.

It hadn’t worked.

“(Y/N)?” Came his soft voice. Your eyes widened and you had shot off the couch like the many bullets he faced every night.

“Mr. Murdock.” You said quietly, your eyes focused on the dirty carpet of your home. He stood still in the way of the door, his eyes seemingly  _seeing_ straight through you. Never in your life had you felt so vulnerable.

He took a step closer. You gulped, setting down the bottle of vodka.

“Tell me what’s happening. Please.” He asked, his voice washing over you like a warm shower after a cold night.

And that was all it took. You shattered into millions and millions of shards of glass.

Tears flowed down your face without an obstruction. Matt rushed to you, gathering your shaking figure into his arms. He gathered every piece of you together, gluing it with all he had to offer, whether it be simple words of comfort or just  _holding_ you close as you whispered, “He’s gone,” over and over and over again.

Hours passed with your sobs echoing clearly in the smoky room, a disastrous contrast to the soft, promising lilt of your songs.

But he stayed. He stayed, so damn close. His arms holding the piercing glass shards of your secrets tightly in his arms. He stayed when the shards cut into his skin, leaving ugly scars. He stayed, holding the broken masterpiece of you together.

You calmed eventually, his arms still tight around you. Holding the freshly repaired shards together. And you didn’t say a word, your face still buried in his shirt which was wet with your tears. God damn him if he cared.

You felt a soft pressure on the crown of your head, his lips leaving a small comforting kiss. You clung to him tighter, refusing to let go.

“You’re gonna be okay.” He finally spoke up, “You are okay.” He whispered, gently squeezing your frame.

You didn’t meet his gaze until he gently placed a finger under your chin, applying a light force to bring your gaze up to his.

You gulped.

“You’re gonna be okay. We’ll get through this.” He whispered. And, for the first time in a long time, you believed him. You believed the soft, rough lilt of his voice. His words washed over you, promising that you could  _hope_ again. You believed that he’d be there throughout this entire ordeal. He’d be by your side. 

“Thank you, Matt.” You replied, your voice raspy.

The smile he gave you rivaled the brightness of the sun, offering you all the warmth, comfort, and  _love_ that you could ever need.

It was the first time you called him by his first name.


	28. Remember [Frank Castle]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank’s recollection of his memories. (A poem on Frank's memories.)

The sight of blood covering his hands was a sight that he had grown accustomed to, never flinching but instead reveling in the cold stickiness of the crimson coat slathered over his calloused fingers. 

 _One batch, two batch. A penny, a dime._  

Never once had he run from danger, constantly choosing the thrill of the fight rather than the shame of flight. And often it hurt him. Pinpricks of electric pain shooting up his spine, hindering his movements. 

 _One batch, two batch. A penny, a dime._  

Times like these were when he wanted to start over. To erase all the scars covering the expanse of his chest. To erase the cuts scattered across his cheekbones. To erase the bruises won as reminders of defense. Times like these were when he needed a reminder of why he fought. Why he was in constant and vain pursuit of revenge.

_One batch, two batch. A penny, a dime._

Because as inured as he was to the blood, he was never ready to see the blood of his family covering his hands. So he needed a constant reminder to fight for them, for their memory.

_One batch, two batch. A penny, a dime._

Kill easily. Let the blood cover your hands again.

_One batch, two batch. A penny, a dime._

Walk away. Face stoic. Back straight. 

 _One batch, two batch. A penny, a dime._  

Remember them.

 _One batch, two batch. A penny, a dime._  


	29. Forbidden [Sebastian Stan]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A human has entered the realm of the fairies, a land forbidden. What good can come of it? (Sebastian Stan x Reader Unseelie Fae AU)
> 
> Warnings: angst, kissing, bad writing

They say that a kiss from a fairy is one that kills. They say it draws you in with the softest brush of false promise, the lightest touch of want. And then it destroys. Completely. Engulfing every fiber of your being with its unrestrained chaos.

But that doesn’t explain the sheer attraction that the creatures present to mortals, the lust to kiss them lurking in the corner of every commoners’ greed tainted heart. Perhaps, it’s every human’s tendency to want. It is what causes war.  Is it not? The want for land. For wealth. For love.

~~~

When you find the cavern first, the forest is still. Nothing moves. Nothing breathes. There’s no light, even the gentleness of the moon’s rays shivering in fear of the interminable darkness, punctuated only by the howl of the wind.

There’s an electricity in the air. It whispers,  _Run._

The warning goes unheeded, insatiable curiosity gaining edge over the easily conquerable mind. You step into the cavern, foot crossing the threshold of nature into Unseelie land. Not that you would realize. As far as you knew, the Courts were no more than a mere myth told by the fire late at night to scare unruly children.

The croak of a crow echoes through the cavern, shadows moving, as if of their own free will. Your eyes flicker to the movement, trying to catch sight of the bird. There hadn’t been any sign of life in the cave when your eyes had first landed on it, catching nothing more than the endless space devoid of  _anything_.

The sound fades within seconds, deafening silence once again filling the space, inhabited by nothing now but the soft puffs of air that left your mouth. A shiver of what seemed to be foolish fear shoots up your spine, causing you to question your motive for ever having wanted to even come in the vicinity of this desolate alcove.

It’s then that the softest of sounds is heard, its delicateness rivaling that of the very first raindrop falling from the heavens to wash over blood-soaked cobblestone, wiping all trace of bloodlust that once existed.

The increase in pitch is gradual, almost as if the source of the musical chime was giving you yet another chance to flee. You don’t take it, much too entranced by the melody to even breathe, much less think of escape.

It’s  _calling_. Calling out for you .  _For you. For sacrifice._

Everything is cold, the lightest layer of frost forming along the ground of the cavern, all leading to one point in the ceiling. You take an unbidden step back, watching the movement of the quick forming ice.

“Why have you come, girl?”

The question is left unanswered, the shadows still dancing in the most dim of lights. You’re running, legs pumping quicker than they ever had before, nothing but fear racing through every nerve to fuel your  _want_ for escape.

Risking one last glance back, you run through the forest, bitten by night’s pressing distress, catching sight of two golden eyes of ethereal beauty, containing eternities of modest wisdom.

You run. He smiles.

~~~

The days grow cold, sunlight dimming in the oncoming winter days. The murder of crows caw constantly, ruffling their feathers in the clipping wind. There’s one bird that doesn’t make a sound, standing on the sill of your window, simply  _watching_ , an almost sinister glint in it’s beady, uncannily intelligent eyes.

It never flinches when you watch it, instead returning your gaze with a prideful preening of its ebony feathers. Every night, it disappears, its plume dissipating into a what seemed like smoke, invisible against the sky.

Where it goes, you don’t know. Crows are creatures of the Devil. Surely, they only go to hell.

The bird returns to the same place on your windowsill, leaving small tokens on the wooden frame. A silver button once. A twig another. The satin petal of a rose its last gift.

You’re not sure how you know it’s a rose petal. It’s only an unexplainable certainty that you choose to accept.

You keep the items in a small leather pouch, its presence constant in the palm of your hand. The silver never ceases to shine. The twig never breaks. The petal never dries. And the crow always returns.

Until the day that the rain arrives, sheets upon sheets of torrential misery falling upon the village. You’re caught outside that day, cursing yourself mentally for your misfortune, the soft material of your dress clinging to your frame.

You’re not sure why you had decided to come to the forest that day. Perhaps, it was a _want_  to find answers to what had happened that other day. The day that the Unseelie Prince had first seen you. The day that he had first caught scent of your sweet fear.

The rain doesn’t falter, not for a second. The monstrous yew that you had hid under did nothing to protect you from the piercing droplets of water. Or the piercing gaze of the crow, watching you from above, completely unaffected by the downpour.

Its beak opens, a loud caw leaving the small body. The bird’s eyes go dark and it falls from the branch that it perched on only seconds ago. A thud of metal upon the wet ground echoes louder than it should, the small figurine of a bird resting at your feet.

You pick up the toy, the cold of the metal burning your fingers as you drop it with a hiss, a the red mark of a star on the tip of your finger being the only reminder of the fact that the figure had been in your grasp.  

The mark continues to burn, making you cry out in symphony with the thunder, your whimper of pain drowned out. It feels as if ice is filling your veins, its cold, gripping fingers stretching to cover as much area on your wet skin as possible. And it burns. Like fire. Catching onto its surroundings and burning, burning,  _burning_.

The pain spreads faster than you would have deemed possible, all stemming from the smallest incision in the form of a star on your finger, black dots dancing wildly over your vision. With what little focus you have left on your surroundings, you kick away the metal figurine, trying to scramble away from the toy as if it would hurt you.

The darkness spreads like ink in water over your vision, a gentle numbness creeping on your being.

The last thing you feel before all your senses fade to oblivion is the softest caress of glasslike fingers across your cheek.

~~~

The air is filled with the sweet scent of rose water, warm and of summertime, a stark contrast to the frost still inhabiting your veins as a soft groan of pain leaves your lips, eyes fluttering open. For a moment, you’re able to feel the silkiness of the pillow that your head is resting upon, tongue darting out to wet your dry lips, catching the slightest sweetness of something that tastes vaguely like honey.

Your eyes take in the vastness of the room, taking emblems of stars that decorate the walls that seemed to glow with liveliness.  _Is this home?_

The question is answered with the entry of a man. Tall, broad shouldered, his presence filling the entire room with the power he exuded from his walk. You sit up immediately, his glowing golden eyes catching your own, entrancing you with their beauty. His sonorous voice says something that doesn’t register in your mind, you’re entirety occupied with trying to memorize every inch of the marbled perfection of his frame.

No man could rival this one, his beauty foreign to the mortal eye.

It was fitting then, that this was no _man_.

He’s by your side, no emotion evident in his shining eyes. The room seems bland compared to him. And suddenly, it doesn’t seem beautiful anymore, the cracks in the walls suddenly evident, the emblems losing the shine that they’d contained mere seconds ago.  

The bed you lay on no longer seems soft against your skin, feeling too much like the bark of a tree. Looking back, you realize that it really is a tree that your back is resting against, the harsh texture uncomfortable against your soft skin.

The life, quite literally, fades from the room, leaving behind a lingering sense of dread, all emanating from the man.

No, the fairy.

His eyes don’t leave your own, holding you captive in two senses, one with want and the other with curiosity. Not fear. This was your first mistake…seeking knowledge. It seizes the fairy’s attention, nostrils flaring at the unfamiliar scent of hunger, a welcome difference from the sickly sweet fear that he’d become so accustomed to.

For a moment, the two of you stay in tense silence, glances and the slightest show of emotion upon your face telling the fairy all he needed to know about the circumstances under which you had found yourself in a land of myth, but not the reason.

He speaks finally, breaking the silence with the most formal of words, repeated from before, “Why have you come?”

The words catch you off guard, you’re not sure why you’ve come. Hell, why would you have if you had known that this would be your situation, at the mercy of this…this  _creature_?

At your hesitation, his lips twitch upwards in amusement, both at his own stupidity at not realizing the obvious answer to his question and at the way that your eyes were dazed, steadily falling under the spell of the Fae with every passing second that you spend in a world not of your origin.

But if there’s one thing that’s clear, it’s the fact that the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. And it doesn’t bode well for you, considering your inability to answer his seemingly simple question.

~~~

There is no concept of time that you can wrap your mortal mind around, the mechanisms of the clock adorning the interior of wherever-the-hell much too complicated for you to follow.

You begin the count the days based on  _his_ visits. On every third day, the man comes to see you, the room filling with the same magical vibrance that he seemed to bring, everything fading once more to blandness upon his exit.

Your fascination with him, however concealed, was obvious. You weren’t sure why your eyes never left him, raking over every inch of his face, as if trying to discern his reason for coming. Of course, you never were able to figure it out, his alluring eyes succeeding in making you forget what your initial thoughts had been.

Perhaps it’s the tone of his skin that catches your attention the most, always having the dullest of shines to it. Or maybe, it was the way that he carried himself, prideful, bordering on the edge of arrogant. Or even the simple curve of his lips, resembling a shape similar to a crescent moon, only more beautiful.

He doesn’t speak during his visits, only staring with those uncannily arresting eyes of his. It’s as if he’s trying to look through you rather than at you. You speak nothing of the wandering of his eyes, knowing that you were guilty of doing the very same.

But with the lingering glances and the blank faces, there’s still a sense of false camaraderie that builds for you, despite the lack of words that are exchanged.

You’re not sure how it happens but you find yourself trusting him. You don’t know his name. You don’t know of the power he has. You don’t know what his motives are for keeping you alive for this long. You know that he’s not human. And yet, there’s still an inkling of trust that has seeded itself in your heart, getting nurtured with every accidental touch, every brush of his eyes.

Perhaps, that’s why you go with him when he asks you to, offering you his arm. You don’t take it. You also don’t notice the brief flash of anger that crosses his eyes.

Nevertheless, he leads you out of the enclosure that you’ve been kept in like a caged animal. You’re not sure what he has in mind but you don’t have the guts to ask him, too fearful of the response you would receive even if he had the courtesy to give you a straight answer. Which he wouldn’t. Fae couldn’t  _speak_  the truth, only in veiled hints and broken statements, spinning riddles of confusion. No, they couldn’t speak the truth. They could express it, no natural law forbid them from doing so. It is a curse then, that Fae are elusive folk, tending to hide behind cloaks of mischief and thievery.

You stay silent in his company, daring not to fall behind with the rage-filled glances the Other-folk offer, eyes filled with malice and cruel intent. He doesn’t speak, the same, constant silence filling the space between your bodies.

The fairy stops a little ways off from the entrance to a small cave. You stumble a little, stopping yourself a mere moment from crashing into him, eyes still having been looking back fearfully towards the cold glared thrown your way.

“You don’t belong here.” The words are frigid, laced with a toxin that catches you completely off guard. You don’t reply for a moment, biting back a retort at his obvious statement.

Choosing instead to look at the green vines crawling up the side of the yew tree, the hollow center stretching far above your head, arching further than the heavens, filling the space with a sense of stubborn naturality.

“You don’t belong here.” He’s standing in front of you, quite suddenly, causing you to attempt a quick step backwards. It would’ve worked if not for the iron grip that he has on your arm, his flaxen eyes gazing into your own.

Your mouth opens to reply harshly to his words, but nothing comes out.

“Why have you come?” It’s those same words that cause your heart to beat erratically. There’s this glimmer of raw hopelessness in his eyes that never show  _anything_. You can’t help the crushing feeling in your chest, overtaking every nerve in your body all because he’d shown a trace of emotion.

You’re scolding yourself immediately for being so damned invested in him, tugging your arm away harshly, “You think I would know? After  _you_  kept me chained like a bloody animal in that hellhole?!” His eyes widen, finding insult in your outburst.

“You dare speak to  _me_ in that way?”

Your retort is immediate, unbidden by your will, “You dare manhandle  _me_  in that way?” You snapped back, snarling in his face. His lips part slightly in surprise at your tone of voice, not having ever been talked to in that way.

He takes a shaky breath, chest not even rising and falling, as if his inhale was all just a show to appear more  _human_. The action makes your breath catch in your throat, you curse yourself again.  _What the hell are you thinking?_

You’re stepping back from him, eyes not leaving his own, the desperation for  _something_  crystal clear.

He’s repeating the words mindlessly, “Why have you come? Why have you come?” There’s the smallest part of you that wants to respond despite not knowing the answer. The other part is telling you to run. You stay planted, watching this…this fairy repeat the words endlessly like a prayer, as if the villain had a god.

The words leave your lips shakily, barely audible against his unbounded question, “You should know,” His head snaps towards yours, “You brought me here.”

“No.” The single syllable cuts through the tension in the air, causing you to stand straighter, “No. You were in our territory when I found you.”

You try to contradict his statement, instead finding yourself unable to speak because this bastard is actually right. There’s _something_  in the air that’s pressing upon the two of you, something with frigid intent and malice filled, suspending all thought, all sense, it’s gripping, gripping, gripping…

He breaks the hold that the  _something_ , the  _magic_  has on you with four words, “You need to go.”

~~~

You’re not sure the exact day that he’s stopped visiting, the light from outside refusing to puncture the air in the hollow that you’d recovered in.

You don’t remember the day, no. You do, however, remember the way that the hollow had seemed darker, completely and utterly forbidding, more so than the very first time that you had set foot in the area. It had been raining, the water dripping from the top of the alcove entrance entrancing you in the same way that almost everything in the Fae world seemed to do.

Unable to take anymore of the blank, hopeless surroundings, you find yourself walking out, legs working faster than your conscious mind, trying to retrace the steps back to the hollowed tree. You’re not sure why you want to go there but there’s nothing but an  _irresistible_  urge to go back. To the same place where his touch had burned you. To the same place where he’d shown at least a part of himself to be vaguely human.

The pull is strong, much too strong to be of your own  _want_  to go back. You don’t realize that this is fairy magic. Then perhaps, no human would’ve known the worst until it came to them, filling their every nerve and every thought with an unexplainable lust.

You seem to have no control of anything, legs moving mindlessly, mind a blank slate. Your eyes catch sight of the Fae milling around, a sense of pride in their glances, no longer filled with malice.

And that should’ve been your first sign of danger.

Your human mind glazes over the fact, completely choosing instead to focus on the sense of blind obedience forcing your feet forward.

You don’t feel the bitterly cold water crawling its way up your legs, tendrils upon tendrils of the liquid finding its way up your body, engulfing all traces of your being. You can only see the outline of a figure, shrouded in darkness, the soft music emanating from it causing your eyes to fall shut, a small smile finding its way onto your lips, false warmth filling your veins.

_The scent of fresh baked bread filled the air of the house, slipping into every crevice and crack in the worn walls and broken floor._

_Finding the scent much too alluring to ignore, your feet has rushed you to the kitchen, wooden crow that had been in your hand falling to the ground with a soft ‘thud’, the beak of the bird breaking off, its dull, beady eyes staring off into nothingness._

_Your feet hadn’t made any noise, steps muffled by the softness of your soles against the rough floor. A mischievous glint on your lips, you watched the frame of your mother mill around the kitchen, the soft song from her lips filling the air with love. Stepping past the threshold, you hid behind her, mirroring her movements, eager to have a taste of the bread but much more eager not to get a beating._

_You could practically already taste the crispy crust of the bread and the soft, chewy inside, mouth watering at the mere thought of having a bite. Skirting around her, you managed to capture the smallest of slices within the quickness of your hands, taking no more chances to steal another one, you rush out of the kitchen, a victorious smile on you face._

_Looking at your retreating figure, your mother has her own amused smile at your antics, shaking her head._

_Savoring the taste of the food in your mouth, you walk happily back to play with your toys. Almost immediately, the smile on your lips gets replaced with a frown, chewing slowly down upon seeing one of your toys missing. Rushing quickly around your bed, you scour wildly for the wooden toy, not wanting to have lost the one thing that your father had left you with._

_You’re calling for your mama, asking, begging for her to help you find the toy._

_Neither of you are successful in your search. You go to bed with a frown on your face, staring at the low ceiling above._

_Little do you know, two mischievous golden eyes are smiling down at the carved figurine of a crow in the boy’s porcelain hands._

The water is nearly to your chin, your eyes snapping open at the memory. Suddenly, you’re struggling, arms flailing wildly. The ropes of water tighten around you as you struggle, gasping for air, the frigidness of it slowing your movements. You open your mouth to scream. The water fills your mouth, pulling you  _down down down_  into it’s cold embrace, applying a suffocating pressure on every ounce of matter within you.

You’re screaming, you’re crying, you’re dying.

Two arms are lifting you against the water and now it feels as if you’re fighting a war on two fronts, now struggling against the hands trying to tug you out of your trance.

“ _Porumbelului_!” The word sounds strangely sweet in your ears, causing you to falter in your struggling. You’re sputtering, gasping for air from the feeling of water. Only a feeling. The music fades abruptly, the familiar voice in your ear pulling your frame close, a soothing and welcome warmth seeping to your soul.

You’re still gasping. He’s still whispering soft words of comfort in your ear, smooth hands running up and down your arms, trying to warm you from nipping cold that wasn’t there.

You hear him snarl a threat to someone. The coldness fades as the other fairy creeps away, glaring at the man’s arms that you now currently lay in.

Tilting your head up, you catch the glint of his eyes. The same shining color, glimmering in the light of the fading day. The same golden eyes, brimming with years of wisdom. You find yourself unable to look away, entranced by the swirling of them.

Worry. Worry, that’s what’s off about the color of them, looking more like straw rather than the shining gold coins that were a rarity in your life.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

~~~

He bluntly refuses to leave your side, glaring at any fairy other than him that dare to glance upon you too long. He still doesn’t speak much, not paying heed to any one of your questions, answering them with raised eyebrows and the occasional crooked smile.

You accept the answer. It’s better than you’ve received before. You’ll take what you can get.

_Don’t you have other places to be?_

An amused laugh.

_Why the sudden interest in my well-being?_

A raised eyebrow.

_What the hell is your name?_

Dead silence.

You stop asking him questions after that, instead choosing to stare at him with the same chilled silence that he offers.

You’re not sure what makes that day so different but he tells you his name in that gruff, sonorous voice of his.

“Sebastian.” It sounds more like a note of haunting music rather than a mere name, rolling off his tongue like a drop of blood falling off the edge of a dagger after a fresh kill, staining the white snow beneath.

You return the gesture, your own name leaving your lips in a much less graceful way.

It’s the first time that you’ve seen him smile. And you’d be damned if you said that you’d seen something more beautiful.

The smile is genuine, the smallest sliver of his teeth visible between those lusciously pink lips, eyes crinkled slightly at the corner, mouth just a little crooked…the smallest imperfection. You’d be damned if you claimed to have seen anything more beautiful.

That’s why you don’t. It’s the most stunning thing you’ve ever seen and that much is fact. The memory of it doesn’t fade from your mind for days.

~~~

You’re not sure what the source of this attraction is, if that’s what you dare call it. But you’ve become  _comfortable_  in his presence, and that angers the Other-folk. They don’t retaliate. They can’t. Not against the Crown Prince.

Instead, they sit with rage boiling in veins that only pumped more venom to their hearts, watching from afar as the Prince grows accustomed to your presence, his wariness fading into unbidden, boisterous laughter at your stories, despite the fact that he knew those stories himself, however preferring to hear your voice spin them into exaggerated tales.

The days flew, like steeds galloping in the wind, their manes flowing with an inhuman elegance.

Days pass, glances linger longer than they should, touches become more common than they should. Perhaps, that might’ve just been your subconscious… but little did you know, the thoughts filtering through your mind were so damned similar to Sebastian’s.

He’s not sure what makes him realize it but he does, his eyes picking up the small details of you that he’d never bothered to acknowledge before, never leaving your face, taking in every minor imperfection and memorize every miniscule detail as if he would lose you any second.

And he was right. He was bound to lose you. Fae and human can never be. They never have been and there is no hope now for the event to ever come to pass.

The Queen has been watching, her eyes filled to the brim with cold intelligence. She knows. She knows that her son is  _utterly and irrevocably_  in love with… with this human filth.

She also knows that you feel the same, your bland eyes flickering to his lips and back. She knows. She knows that you too love him  _utterly and irrevocably_. She knows that you have to go. By death or by disgrace, you have to go.

~~~

The last day that you see him is the day that you kiss him. Or he kisses you. Of course, neither of you know that it’s the last time that you’ll be seeing the other.

But there’s something malicious in the air that prompts you and only you to feel such a way. He’s grown accustomed to the magic, thinking nothing of the pressure in the air.

And you’re not sure why you kiss him, but you do. His lips are soft. Softer than you could’ve possibly imagined, horridly similar to the petals of a rose, sliding languidly across yours, his hand cupping your jaw with such delicate touch that it makes your heart flutter in your chest.

He doesn’t pull away for a while, stealing your air much like he’d stolen your heart. With your face burning and your eyes closed still, you break the kiss, forehead resting against his own.

Sebastian doesn’t say the words, he doesn’t need to. You know what he means by the kiss. He does too.

You’re kissing him and he’s kissing you and the two of you are so deep in this…this feeling and it’s  _beautiful_.

Certainly, the Queen doesn’t think so. She’s furious. More so than she’s ever been in all these centuries. And maybe, just maybe it’s maternal instinct but that doesn’t explain the way that she’s left her son to fend for himself. No, it’s not maternal instinct. It’s unadulterated disgust that a human would go as far to fall in love with a fairy of the purest blood.

The day that you see him last is the day that the Unseelie Queen betrays her kingdom, breaking one of their most sacred laws. The one that claims no human shall be harmed by a fairy.

The day that you see him last is the day that the Unseelie Queen falls from grace, stripped of her power, left forever to walk a human among the very beings that she had despised so much.

The day that you see him last is the day that you lose all memory of another world. A magical world.

The day that you see him last is the day that you lose the memory of the softest kiss, a brush of someone’s lips against your own, holding you with the utmost care.

The day that you see him last is the day that the Crown Prince of the Unseelie Kingdom sheds a tear for a lost love.

Life returns to bland routine. There’s a constant presence in the woods from your window, golden eyes trying to memorize your laughter, your voice, every plane of your face.

He’s lost. He knows. He’s lost his most treasured possession, his heart.

The Unseelie King once lived as a human. A brief existence in his long life, stolen from you along with your memories, but one that he treasures forever.

He used to smile. He used to laugh. He used to make mistakes, He used to love.

But now, he is nothing more than a cold, cold creature of a magical world that humans no longer believe in.

And that’s why they say a kiss from a fairy kills.

They don’t mention it kills your will to love another.


	30. Midnight [Chris Evans]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does love mean that you’re meant to be? (Chris Evans x Reader)
> 
> Warnings: implied smut, angst

It starts with glances from behind borrowed books - ones that the two of them steal when the other isn’t looking.

And despite the pounding of two hearts - almost in sync - the library remains oblivious to the erratic beats, all too focused on keeping the rigid silence.

For one of them, it had become a cycle of hopeless longing, coming day after day to the same seat, leafing through the same old books, feeling the same old emotions, scanning the same old words until she caught something  _new,_ something even vaguely interesting that would capture her attention quicker than she could force herself to tear it away.

She expects it to be a  _book_ that catches her fleeting attention. It’s not.

For the other, it has become a distraction. One that draws him away from the building pressure of life, piling on top endlessly until  _he’s_ ready to topple. He’s new to this place - that much is evident in his stiff posture and wandering glances.

He expects to find solace in the spilled ink that stains his fingers. He does not.

Instead, they find  _love_ , a distraction for one, an answer for another. Perhaps, love is not something that they find a sense of calm in but that’s the funny thing about it. It sets their hearts racing, thundering louder than the storm that brews slowly outside.

They smile once as they catch each other’s eyes, amusement dancing in their eyes at each other’s curiosity. He chuckles softly, the sound pleasant to her - something that the librarian finds no enjoyment in, her loud voice ringing out in the near silence to mute them.

It’s ironic really, but they do not complain, smiles ever-widening.

As the world demands silence, they love in silence.

* * *

It becomes routine to see each other across aged wooden tables and piles of books. The smiles come easier, silent conversations more so, spoken with nothing more than gestures and bright eyes.

Perhaps, it comes as no surprise then that you find yourself seated across from him at some random cafe that, if you remember correctly,  _he_ had suggested, sharing cheesy jokes and half-hearted insults as one would with an old friend. You’ve been here for a while, taking into consideration that the waitress that had greeted you with a smile now looked at you with contempt painted on her lips - almost as if she’s ready to throw you out any second. And you really can’t blame her - it doesn’t take three hours to drink one cappuccino.

He’s easy to talk to, comfortable in your presence in a way that’s not entirely overbearing.

And his smile -  _god_ , his smile. It’s all crooked lips and crinkled eyes but it’s  _perfect_  in the sense that you’re unable to help your own at the simple fact that it’s so  _genuine,_ that he actually enjoys  _this -_ whatever  _this_ happened to be.

Maybe  _this_ is what it was like to be so completely engrossed by another person that you forget yourself.

Maybe  _this_ is what it is to be in love.

* * *

The street lights haven’t come on yet, the setting sun painting the sky with languid brushstrokes of pink and yellow. The air is cool against your skin, a pleasant contrast to the embers burning in the pit of your stomach at his touch.

You’re not exactly sure how he’s convinced you to go for a walk at this time but with the warmth of his hand in yours, you’re not exactly sure you  _care._

“Remind me again why I’m here?” You ask, breaking the silence as he leads you down the sidewalk.

“I wanted to see you.” You reckon he knows how the words make you feel - like taking a hot bath after being caught in the rain on a bad day. And maybe you think he can hear the thudding of your heart but it doesn’t matter because the next thing you know, he’s pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, one that tastes like a promise - you like that delusion.

As you kiss him back, leaning forward towards him slightly, his hand tightens on yours.

He tastes addicting, leaving you wanting more as he breaks the kiss, his breath fanning your lips. You didn’t know then that that kiss wasn’t a promise of  _more._ It was just a kiss - something that you wished was more but  _wasn’t_.

* * *

The funny thing about love is that it’s unpredictable.

It begins with stolen glances from behind borrowed books. It becomes long talks and night walks with hands entwined. It leaves you breathless, taking a part of you and giving it to someone else. But - it’s beautiful in the way that a wave is beautiful. It’s beautiful in the way that, from a distance, it is something that curiosity longs to touch. It’s beautiful in the way that it brings you in, just to fill your lungs with water. It’s beautiful in the way that you struggle - realizing that perhaps,  _love isn’t beautiful…_

It’s night by the time he returns to the safety of your arms, smelling of the night air and spilled ink. He’s whispering something completely incoherent as his arm wraps around your body, beard scratching pleasantly against the soft skin of your neck.

There was once a time that it’d been your soothing words to inspire those beautiful thoughts of his, not the gentle caress of the night air that he chose to surround himself in lieu of your presence.

Moments like these are the ones where you find yourself forcing what seems like an unbidden smile onto your lips, eyes closed to attempt to fool him into believing your conscience lay trapped in slumber, to fool him into believing that you hadn’t forced your eyes open, teetering on the edge of sleep to wait for him.

Not once had it worked. You would often find yourself succumbing to his touches, the warmth of his body surrounding you in an alcove of safety, the satin softness of his lips pressing gentle kisses to the crook of your neck.

“Chris, stop it.” Of course, it’s not meant as a command, more a tease as you struggle to bite back your laughter. You don’t need to turn around to see the smirk playing at his lips, a soft chuckle leaving his lips at your words.

“What happened to being asleep?” He asks, his voice filling the silence of the room.

Your retort is immediate, “Same thing that happened to you promising to come to bed early.”

His lips kiss their way along the curve of your neck, taking a deep inhale of your scent, smelling like his soap, “What do I have to do to get you to forgive me?”

“Go the fuck to sleep.” You reply with a smile on your face, turning on your back to face him. He cocks an eyebrow, mirroring your smile as he lowers, kissing you softly. Your reaction is quick, lips pressing closer to his, allowing yourself the time to taste the peppermint toothpaste still lingering on his lips.

Chris doesn’t break the kiss, lips working gently over yours. His hands begin to wander, taking the same path that they’d traveled along before, reveling in every sloping curve of your body, entranced by the simple beauty of it.

The kiss doesn’t take long to progress into something  _more_ , love clear in his body language as his hand moves down to cradle your head, thumb skirting across your cheek bone. There’s a pleasant feeling in his chest, something akin to being in the sun, letting the sun’s rays dance across his skin - god, he loves it.

Your own hands find their way into his hair, pulling him closer  _still,_ and  _fuck,_ it’s enough to cement the fact that you’ve  _fallen_. You find your senses overtaken by him but you find that it’s not something that’s entirely unpleasant.

“I love you,” The words are whispered against your lips but it’s  _enough_ to cement the fact that he has  _given_ himself to you. That promise itself is enough to make your heart pound like a war drum.

“I love you too.”

You want to believe that it’s not a lie.

* * *

Maybe it’s the small smile that remains on his lips as he sleeps, the stress of life vanishing from his face, or the way that he holds your entwined hand against his bare chest that confirms how deep of a hole you’ve dug yourself into.

Because if there’s anything that’s clear to you in that moment, it’s the fact that you’re completely in  _love_ with this man.

There’s a glint of metal in the moonlight that catches your attention, something that makes the breath catch in your throat. There’s a building pressure in your chest, something that feels all too similar to a fist clenching around your heart.

You need nothing but the ring that hangs from his neck to confirm that he is not  _yours_ any more than you are  _his._ He may taste of you when he kisses her, whoever  _she_ is, but  _he is not yours._

You are not the first, as you believe, to have loved him as dearly as you did. You are not the first that he had given his heart to.

It’s midnight when you finally understand that  _he’s not yours to love._   


	31. A Freshly Brewed Storm [Steve Rogers]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, he’s is Captain America — he’s supposed to be the punctual one. It doesn’t stop him from running a coffee shop with terrible timings. Despite it, he does manage to bring back a regular.

If there’s one thing that he’s  _utterly_ , _stupidly_  sure of, it’s that he’s  _not_ cut out for this shit. He’s left yet another war with a battered heart and bruised skin—hell, it feels like he’s missed an entire fucking  _life_ and sometimes, just  _sometimes_ he feels like he’s still got it, well, a shadow of it—right, that’s what this was supposed to be. A distraction.

Coming home had been easy, because, yeah, that’s what you’re supposed to do after a war and that plan is set in stone but then no one tells you shit about what the hell to do when you’re awake at three in the morning with your shirt clinging to you because for a second, you were back on that battlefield and shots were ringing out all around you and suddenly, the bed’s too soft and the walls are closing in and— _there’s no obvious next step._

It feels aimless, whatever this wake up, walk around, go to sleep  _thing_ is. He’s just going through the motions again, time after time, day after day.

He’d found it on one of his early 2am walks. ‘Course it wasn’t much, both monetarily and visually, just an old run down, cottage lookin’ shop—if that’s what you could even call it—with the word ‘hiring’ written in red over a piece of paper that definitely looked old.

He finds that he doesn’t really care—he needs a job, some money and it’s a distraction from  _everything._

He might as well.

* * *

It’s a cozy little shop, nestled somewhere between a library and a bakery with options that Steve’s positive  _shouldn’t_ be a thing—it’s a perfect location really both for caffeine addicts that need their fix before the sun even rises and students who need those few hours at night to rush on a paper that was assigned weeks ago.

By the second week, he’s not really sure why ol’ Mickey (he’s pretty sure that’s his name) hasn’t fired him yet—it’s not that he wants to be fired but it’s just a little bit confusing. He’s starting to wonder if Mickey’s just desperate for someone to run the night shift in a city that never sleeps—Steve’s more than happy to serve coffee on late nights when he can’t bear the thought of staring at his ceiling like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

He finds that his constant tardiness bothers his customers a lot, making a lot of them abandon him in lieu of a Starbucks or something that’ll actually open  _on time,_ but somehow, for some reason that he can’t explain, he manages to bring back one regular.

She’d been the first customer to walk in on his very first day and the last to leave, tipping much too generously for someone with bags under their eyes and tattered shoes. ‘Course, it’s a little less than friendly when she ordered her coffee, ‘ _Just gimme some fucking coffee. Black, no sugar.’_

He figures he should be a  _little_ peeved but she looks like she hasn’t slept in few days so he figures he’ll let it slide—he knows the feeling.

But, he kinda does want to yell at her when it’s his third, maybe fourth week of working, and his third, maybe fourth day without sleep—he doesn’t fucking know, or care because at this point, he’s just trying to get a few minutes of shut-eye but  _someone’s_ knocking, no  _banging_ on the shop’s door. And, it’s  _her._

This time, he does snap at her—a lack of sleep does that to you.

‘ _Can you not fucking see that we’re closed?’_

She doesn’t flinch and although he tells her to find some other coffee shop quite rudely, her answer is simple, ‘ _It’s not the same coffee_.’

(She doesn’t snap back at him because she figures it’s payback for the first time she’s ordered coffee on his shift—she’ll let it slide.)

He frowns at her, blue eyes still dazed with a fading notion of getting some rest—she pushes him gently out of the way and walks in like she owns the place. He just grumbles something incomprehensible as the need to sleep hits him again.

“I’ll be out of here in five minutes tops.” And although it’s said at a promise, there’s something in him that doesn’t quite believe it. And a few hours later, Mickey walks in and by that time, Steve’s just waking up and when the old man walks in, he’s kinda glad that she made him open the door for her coffee.

She’s behind the counter that day, not wearing an apron like Mickey would’ve expected  _anyone_ working in his coffee shop to be but the lie that leaves her lips is smooth, “Steve hired me yesterday to help him with his shift. He’s just taking a quick break right now. ”

It takes everything he’s got not to break down in laughter because as far as he knows, hiring people was  _not_ part of the job description but—if that’s the case, he makes a mental note to fire her the moment that Mickey leaves.

But the old man seems to buy it because suddenly, he’s telling her that she  _has_ to be wearing an apron and she’s  _got_ to do this and that and  _the cleaning spray is in the back and here’s a key_ —wait, what?

Steve just watches for a moment because as far as he knows, he doesn’t  _want_  to owe her anything for saving his ass but he’d rather be damned than admit that he accepted something akin to a favor from a stranger.

And then he’s walking towards them and her eyes widening and suddenly, she’s calling Mickey ‘ _sir’_ and Steve’s suddenly a manager and she’s calling him ‘ _sir_ ’ too—this is  _not_ going to work.

Then, he’s saying something stupid and nonsensical to send Mickey out and he’s turning to her with his eyebrow raised—she’s got a stupidly gorgeous grin on her lips.

“You glad you let me in?”

Yeah, it’s  _definitely_ time for her to go.

* * *

When she walks in the next day, he’s a little tempted to make her work but she looks like she’s in a rush and when he smiles at her like Mickey told him to smile at customers to keep ‘em coming back—she asks him ‘ _what’d you drink this morning?’_

He finds that he really can’t help the retort that leaves his lips as he makes her coffee, “Whiskey. You drank all the coffee in here yesterday.”

“I figured I deserved it since I saved your ass.”

He only scoffs at her, setting her order on the counter—not that he knew her order by heart (even if it was super simple) or even exactly how hot she liked it (not too hot that it burnt her mouth but hot enough that she could sip it and enjoy the warmth from the cup)

“You didn’t leave your number or anything on this, did you?”

No, he didn’t but she still doesn’t let a chance to make fun of him go unheeded. Thing is, he does leave something for her on her cup—she doesn’t realize it until she gets to work.

_**Thanks.** _

It’s not much but it makes her smile—she wouldn’t dare admit that it makes the day go by just a little faster and that she’s looking forward to seeing him again this afternoon for coffee. Well, her coffee. He’s not having coffee, he’s making her coffee and she’s paying for  _her_ coffee—that’s how these things work.

That afternoon however, he says that her coffee’s on the house and she wonders vaguely if she should ask about whether it’s under his jurisdiction to do that because as far as she knows, he  _doesn’t_ own the shop and he shouldn’t just be giving away free coffee like that and she’s already drank more than half her fill that night before but hey—she’s not gonna complain about free coffee so she mumbles something like ‘ _don’t drink too much tonight_ ’ as she leaves.

For a moment, Steve’s caught off guard by her remark because—she’s gotta have said that just to say that and that there’s no reading behind the lines because it’s a simple statement that  _couldn’t_ have any ulterior motive—he only says, ‘ _no guarantees_.’

If anything, it’s a little funny that he’s found someone to worry about him again with the wound of Bucky’s absence still gaping.

He does keep her in mind when he’s on his fourth glass of whiskey—well on his way to finishing the bottle but then again it’s not like it’s actually going to affect him.

* * *

When she comes in the next day, he’s already got her cup of coffee waiting and it’s what she asks that catches him a little off guard because he  _swears_ that it’s not actually what he’s trying to do—but he does falter.

_‘You trying to get rid of me?’_

Steve stares at her for a good minute until she’s leaning forward to tap his nose to get his attention, ‘ _It ain’t gonna be that easy, buddy. You got my coffee and nothing will keep me from that.’_

She’s out the door before he can even manage to formulate a snarky reply—even if snark was something he prided himself on. After all, it was what got his ass kicked without fail when he was younger.

Steve pretends that he doesn’t notice the napkin that she’d left on the counter from which she had picked up her coffee—he picks it up anyway, despite knowing that if he were to, he wouldn’t be able to take his mind off her even if he tried his hardest.

There’s two simple words scrawled on the paper with scribbled handwriting written in a pen that was running out of ink.

_**You’re welcome.** _

Maybe, he’s not quite ready to forget her.

* * *

He finds himself looking forward to his mornings—even if he doesn’t find the calm reprieve of sleep at nights when he’s forced to re-memorize every bland, eggshell ceiling tile’s imperfections.

It’s almost as if he’s nostalgic for a moment that hasn’t yet passed. He doesn’t quite think it’s a bad idea—but he’s definitely in too damn deep.

Of course, it’s a little strange this whole  _relationship_ —if that’s what you’d even call it but three weeks of sitting across each other over low coffee tables still sticky with residue from  _god knows what_ even after they’d been cleaned, it made doubt swirl like the origins of a catastrophe. That’s exactly  _not_ what Steve wants  _this_ —whatever this is—to be.

He’s not pining. There isn’t anything to pine over. He’s  _not_ pining.

But his heart beats a little faster at one of her crooked smiles and his hands get all clammy and his blood rushes like raging rivers and everything feels too hot and—

Fear has the same symptoms, right?

* * *

Steve does actually manage to find a pal to help him with his shift—someone that’s not the woman who occupies his every thought like the very breath he needs.

His name is Sam and he’s a smart guy. It takes him about three seconds of watching Steve act around the woman like he’s some sort of macho, strictly-business type of guy when in reality he’s just a fool in love—Sam makes a decision then.

He’s going to help this  _idiot._

Turns out, the help really isn’t needed because suddenly Steve’s asking her to taste something for him and Sam thinks he should be just a  _little_ offended because  _C’mon, man. You could’ve asked me_ —but it’s okay because she’s smiling and Steve’s smiling and Sam wants to throw up at how oblivious everyone is.

But it turns out, she likes those little pastries that Steve makes.

(Sam wants to ask when the coffee shop became a bakery too but those pastries that Steve makes are really damn good and he doesn’t count them either so he can manage to eat at least five before his shift ends.)

* * *

Steve’s frowning at a carton of spoiled milk and Sam wonders vaguely if he should throw something at him just to make sure he didn’t fall asleep standing up because Steve  _definitely_ seems like the type of person to do so.

Sam doesn’t. (But he kinda wishes he did because the next remark that leaves his mouth makes him want to throttle him for not admitting his undying love for her.)

“She’s not gonna like today’s pastry filling.”

Sam wants to yell at him.

And not because he hadn’t considered that Sam enjoyed the pastries too.

* * *

The weather’s begun to grow cold, leaves falling from the trees to adorn the sidewalk with a splattered design of yellow and red paint.

From inside the shop, Steve can see that she’s distracted by the beauty of its chaos but he’s more distracted by the sheer brightness of her smile—the customer he’s serving right now doesn’t seem too happy with the delay, snapping his fingers in front of Steve’s face.

“Hey, pal, hurry up with my fuckin’ order, yeah?”

For some reason, it makes him a lot angrier than when the woman outside had snapped at him to hurry up on her order. He clenches his jaw and makes the man his drink, making sure to leave the cup a little emptier than he normally would. (The man’s companion to his coffee—a cinnamon bun—is also cold.)

Yeah, it’s probably the most he can do in that situation without getting fired for it—he figures he’ll settle because suddenly, you’re walking in with a wide smile playing at your lips like it’s the best day of your life as you get in line and you’re waving to him—and nothing matters anymore because his own smile is tugging at his lips.

(Sam has to smack the back of his head with a spoon to get him to refocus on the fact that he’s got a lot of people to serve.)

* * *

It’s been three weeks since she barged in and finally, Steve’s learned her name and she knows his and they’re talking like they’re old friends. He has a lingering feeling he’s an idiot because it’s taken him  _three_ goddamn weeks to find her out her name and he likes the taste of it in his mouth more than he cares to admit—he likes  _this_ , whatever the hell  _this_ is.

See, it scares him a little because he’s only loved like this  _once_ before and it’d been the very loss of that love that had him tossing and turning in the sheets of his bed like he was fighting stormy ocean waves.

He wants to know for sure that  _this_ is something more than just stolen glances from behind sticky counters in fear that the recipient might just say something that’s not ready to be heard.

So when there’s an unexpected note left for him when she leaves, he fears it because suddenly he’s rigid with tension, is utterly sure that  _this_ is a bad idea, probably the worst he’s ever had and he  _still_ doesn’t know what this is.

He folds it and tucks it into the pocket of his apron. He’s got no plans to read it any time soon because his panic is outweighing the nagging in his gut and Sam’s urging to just read the goddamn letter—

(He reads it when he’s got nothing but the ceiling to stare at again because nothing’s on t.v. except the murder of some tycoon and the kidnapping of another child—frankly, he doesn’t have the energy to focus, much less keep his eyes open to watch any of that shit.)

(He doesn’t  _really_ read the words at first, his fingers tracing along the letters as if they’d calm his frayed nerves as his finger followed the curve of her ‘o’s and the slant of her words.)

(He does that a few times before he figures he might as well get this over with—after all, pulling a bandage off quickly hurts a lot less than doing it slow.)

(He actually laughs, the sound genuine and loud in the room.)

_**Heard you were looking for this: 917-386-0837 <3** _

(He figures Sam’s inevitable death can wait another day.)

* * *

Steve gives her simple coffee to her (along with one of his pistachio creme pastries that’s on the house but he figures she doesn’t need to know.)

He doesn’t really expect what he gets in return because the next thing he knows she’s pulling him down by the collar of his shirt and he’s super glad that the coffee shop is basically empty save for the red-headed woman texting vigorously on her phone with a casually dressed man seated across her, seeming to be stealing sips of her coffee and a doctor scouring over papers with a man clad in what looks like an expensive suit next to him—he figures none of them are actually watching to notice what had happened. Except the long, blonde-haired man sitting in the corner wearing a grey hoodie—Steve  _really_ doesn’t know what to make of him other than the fact that he likes pastries and he’s broken 7 coffee cups in three hours and smiles a lot.

Her kiss lingers on his cheek long after she pulls back, smiling cheekily at him as if she’s won something but really—it’s him that’s won because suddenly he’s got confirmation and he can’t stop the smile that lights up his own lips like  _every goddamn time_ he was around her.

“Figured that’d be enough to get you to text me.”

Yeah, it’s  _more_ than enough because he’s giving into the terrible, stupidly idiotic,  _bad_  idea that’s been swirling in the storm of his thoughts—he kisses her like she’s the  _life_ that he’s been missing in his life all this time and she kisses him back like he’s the  _love_ that’s been missing from all the love she lacks.

He’s breathless when he pulls away but it’s not completely because of the kiss—it  _can’t_ be when she’s looking up at him like he’s her entire world and her eyes are bright and  _happy_.

He kisses her again.

When it comes to her, maybe his bad ideas aren’t so  _bad._


	32. True Places [Bucky Barnes]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is not down on any map; true places never are.” or Bucky and the first time that he holds your hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider supporting me on Ko-Fi at: https://ko-fi.com/probablycomplaining

                                                                                                                                              

For lack of a better word, Bucky doesn’t  _know._

Well, maybe it’s lost in some deep crevice of his mind, but he doesn’t know what it’s like to be in love. That feeling, or rather that  _memory_ has been lost to him like the sharpness of a rock lost to the unrelenting sea.

Maybe, it makes him feel a little weak in a position where he swears that it’s  _wrong_ to be so—afterall, it’s been 40 years and that’s what he’s been taught.

It’s gonna take time to unlearn everything—if  _learning_ is what one would call it in the first place.

It’s gonna take time.

He forgets he’s got that sometimes.

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

The first time he runs into her or rather she runs into him, it’s literal—she’s tipsy, he’s trying to get drunk— and they’re a mess. 

It’s maybe two, two thirty, two thirty and fourteen seconds to two thirty-one—he’s looked at the clock too many times to even register time passing as he downs tumbler after tumbler of vodka that he’s not really sure he’s got the money for but right now,  _right now,_ he doesn’t give a damn. 

The bar’s almost empty by the time that the thought of having  _enough_ even  _dares to_ cross his mind. 

He hears the faint, drunken argument that someone tries to put up, somethin’ about not bein’ dumb drunk even though their words are slurring and they’re swaying on their feet like they’re trying to dance but it’s just not working, their feet  _aren’t_ cooperating—it’s  _kind_ of funny but he’s forgotten how to laugh, and the way that his lips turn up feels foreign after so many years so, for now, he just settles for shaking his head.

“We’re closin’ up, pal.” The bartender’s voice rings in his ears like some disembodied voice tellin’ him that the next stop’s Brooklyn and he’s finally  _home—_ he chooses to blame it on the alcohol.

Bucky thinks, maybe, he could manage to get  _one_ more drink outta this guy, somethin’ small, cheaper than the vodka he’s already downed but he just gets up. and fishes $40 something dollars out his back pocket and sets it down on the counter, hopin’ it’s enough, hopin’ he’s got the energy to get home—where-ever the hell that was.

He’s making is way out with precise steps like he’s stepping around mine-laced fields when he hears the bartender’s tone, urging the other patron out with a tired,  _Sweetheart, you really gotta go. I gotta close up._

And they’re replyin’ with something that sounds like, ‘’ _M going_ ,’ in some tone that all too much sounds like a toddler whining about being sent to bed. 

Bucky’s lip lifts up in the corner and he lets it as he walks out into the night air that greets him with a cool embrace. 

He’s barely prepared for the sudden weight that tumbles into him—he’s stumbling forward, catching himself before he can face-plant—andhe’s turning towards whoever the hell just ran into him to glare,  _demand_ an apology but  he receives something that sounds like a ‘s _orry, man.’_

It’s slurred, barely comprehensible,  _barely_ registers. And then she’s pitching forward before he can say, ‘ _it’s fine.’_ and his mouth to opening to demand just  _what the fuck_ right as she just lets all the contents of her stomach go onto his shoes. 

He just stands there, frozen like he doesn’t know what to do—hell, he doesn’t know  _if_ he can do anything, 

Then it’s a  _‘shit, fucking—christ!’_  as she’s wiping the vomit from her mouth and looking at him like a deer caught in headlights. 

She’s apologizing through words that sound like nothing and Bucky’s vaguely wondering if she’s even registering what she’s saying but more importantly, he just wants to know  _why the fuck he chose to be right here of all places._

And then—

 _And then,_ she falls like a deadweight and he’s caught her before he can think of a reason to let her go.

* * *

_It really fucking hurts._

She’s not sure if it’s her head,  _just her head_ or her entire fucking body like she got hit by some heavy some-fucking-number-wheeler but she doesn’t care because at this point if it means blacking out again to block out the pain—she’s willing. 

It takes a moment to register the feel of foreign sheets against her bare arms because the lights are too damn bright and the sound of her own breathing is too loud and she can smell—puke. 

She sits up with a groan that sounds more like a burp and she’s afraid that she’s gonna puke again but she’s not gonna move—she can’t move—because her  _everything_ just feels so heavy and  _‘why’re the lights so damn bright? dammit’._

She forces herself out of bed, barely able to stand on shaky legs that refuse to wake up every though she’s up—against her will, of course, but still up—and she’s lumbering towards the blinds because she needs her damn sleep and it’s  _too_ bright and—

She thinks that her foot catches someone’s ass or  _something_  even though she doesn’t know who’s on the floor or even why the hell they  _are_ on the floor—she’s pitching forward and not even trying to stop herself because frankly, who’s got the energy—

The warmth of an arm around her waist startles her but she doesn’t have time to process, hell, to even  _think_ because the next thing she knows, then there’s a contrasting frigidness that’s maybe a knife, maybe a hand on her neck and she can vaguely feel the jack-hammering of her own heart that she swears is from the exertion of getting the fuck out of bed, but really—

She’s not registering what the sharp object is or the panicked soldier holding her, the panicked soldier seeing her as a threat—

“What the fuck?”

* * *

* * *

* * *

It’s been a few weeks since the smell of puke has cleared from the air of the apartment that’s seen so much and—she’s become constant. 

He’s not sure if he hates it or he’s just paranoid but he feels as if she feels as if she’s indebted to him in some dumb way but really—even though he’d never admit it—he likes the company. 

Just  _the_ company. Not hers. He swears by it because as far as he knows, he can’t risk that kind of attachment—not again. Not when he thinks, he  _knows_ that he’s probably setting himself up for a loss again just by allowing her into his life or maybe, she’s allowed him into hers but he’s thinking, probably overthinking because he’s got a reason to say goodbye.

She comes by every day after work, or maybe school for a science that didn’t exists back then and she’s got a smile and a sense of humor that he’s slowly coming to understand but he’s gotta remember that it— _this_ —isn’t forever. 

But right now, she’s sitting at his dining table frowning at him from over the top of an old newspaper that he’s kept for some dumb reason, sipping a cup of coffee and he’s gotta keep telling himself that it’s not about the arm and she’s not reading the issue that reveals  _every fucking thing_ he’s done and then—

She’s opening her mouth and he’s averting his gaze and he’s bracing himself for a question he doesn’t have an answer to, a question he can’t  _find_  an answer to. 

He’s panicking and trying to focus on everything else  _but_ the way that she’s looking at him and the question barely registers—

“Did you really put salt in the coffee?

* * *

She doesn’t allow him in the kitchen after that. 

Bucky almost doesn’t notice that he’s come to call it ‘the kitchen’ instead of ‘his kitchen’ because she’s there more often than him for the first week that he’s ‘banned’. 

Sure, he protests a little because that’s where all the food is and ‘ _What if I’m hungry?’_ but she’s already ushering him past the threshold like she  _owns_ the place and he finds that he—doesn’t quite mind. 

She’s got her hands on her hips and he figures that he’s supposed to be used to being relaxed around her at his point because the next thing he knows, she’s throwing a towel at him and telling him that dinner will be ready in a few and if he doesn’t get out of the kitchen, she  _will_ put sugar in his spaghetti—he rolls his eyes and leans against the counter. 

She doesn’t protest but she does give him a look that something between a glare and a pout before she moves around the kitchen to make the pasta sauce that she ends up burning.

He’ll admit, it takes a bit of talent to mess up something simple. 

He smiles. 

( When he tries to cook himself breakfast the next day, he also finds that everything that he keeps in his cupboard is labeled in black Sharpie although he doesn’t remember ever having had one in his apartment.)

(Maybe, he’s grateful.)

(He could also enjoy  _her_ company.)

* * *

* * *

* * *

Bucky’s shit at choosing good books.

She finds out when it’s one of her restless nights and  _his_ too because she’s knocking a pattern on his door at an ungodly hour after taking a left, another left and four rights on tired feet to his apartment and he opens the door immediately and his mouth is upturned in a smile with a teasing remark on the tip of his tongue, something about being ‘drunk again’—she scoffs and jostles her way in to settle on his couch. 

Her eyes glaze over the details of his apartment, flickering over the shadows that the low light of his lamp cast on the wall, the book resting face-down on the coffee table, its title discernable in the lighting—or lack thereof. 

Bucky notices the tenseness of her jaw and the way that she’s taking steadying breaths like he’s not gonna care but he  _does._ So, he doesn’t say anything, he just moves to sit by her, close in the silence that lasts moments because he figures that something constant would soothe her as her constantness had soothed him—he begins to read aloud from the book that he’d been reading before she’d come. 

He gets about three pages in before she’s speaking, her body no longer as tense and a smile playing on her lips. 

“You have a shit taste in books.” 

She’s been watching him all this time, he realizes, looking up to find her eyes glued to him—maybe, she’d been watching his lips form the words or the shadows dance across his face but he finds that he doesn’t really mind. 

It’s not fear in her eyes. 

It’s admiration.

* * *

She’s here. 

Bucky’s in some small bookstore in an attempt to improve his ‘shit taste in books’ but he’s not really sure where to start because as far as he knows, ‘Moby Dick’ is a damn good book and—she’s there. 

He catches her eyes when she peeks out from behind a shelf to see who’d come in as the jingle of the bell on the door rings through the empty air of the store. A smile tugs at her lips. But Bucky— Bucky just raises an eyebrow because what the hell is she doing here? 

It’s in that moment that he realizes how little he knows about her and it messes with him a just a little because he’s frowning and she’s walking towards him with that  _beautiful_ smile of hers that never fails to leave him breathless. 

“What’re you doing here?” Her question is tinted with curiosity. 

She thinks that the frown is one of confusion and she’s not  _wrong_ so he just answers her question.

“Wanted to find a book that wasn’t trying to teach me ‘bout whales,” He lets a grin overtake his lips, “What’re  _you_  doing here, sweetheart?”

He’s not sure where the nickname comes from but it’s smooth like whiskey and refreshing like ice—he sees her falter a little, blink twice before answering. 

He doesn’t regret calling her that. 

“Figured I’d help you find a book that’s not trying to teach you about whales,” Her smile widens, “I work here.” 

“You gonna keep a customer waiting?” He teases. 

“No,” She rolls her eyes, “But I’m gonna to kick you out instead.” 

“Can I speak to the manager?” 

“She got lost walking to work,” She deadpans,”Come on, let’s find you a real book.” 

Bucky’s not sure what the hell she means by a ‘real book’ but he doesn’t exactly have the time to protest because suddenly, she’s taken hold of his arm and he’s stumbling after her. 

* * *

It’s about 12 in the afternoon when they find a ‘real book’ that caters to his continually ‘shit taste in books’ but she relents and he’s got no energy to argue. 

They settle in the back of the store where they’re a small area for patrons to relax, maybe read the first few chapters of a book they might buy. 

She seems to think the table is more comfortable to sit on than a chair. Bucky thinks the cushioned chair is fine if a little too soft. 

In the silence, he flips through the book that she’d helped him find after climbing countless ladder-rungs and de-shelving and re-shelving countless books as he just watched with wide eyes, taking in her energy as she navigated the store. 

He’s about half a page in when the loud sound of her growling stomach fills the comfortable silence. 

Her tone is sheepish, a smile clear on her lips—

“You up for lunch?”

* * *

It’s  _not_ a date. 

That’s what he keeps telling himself like a mantra that won’t  _shut the fuck up_.

But it kinda feels like one because it’s a  _small diner_  and they’re sharing a milkshake because  _someone_ forgot to bring their wallet when going to a bookstore and it’s a _small diner that only takes cash—_ and he’d insisted on paying but now, she just looks amused.

“Drink the damn milkshake,” She snorts, pushing it his way, “I’m not gonna finish it.” 

He’s hungry, got a sweet-tooth, it’s  _chocolate and vanilla_ —he’s got a lot of reasons to relent. so he does, taking a slow sip of the concoction that tastes familiar in a way that he can’t quite place for some reason. 

Bucky lets himself get lost in the taste, the mixture creamy and sweet against his tongue as he swallows, his eyes falling shut in bliss. 

“Do you two need a moment alone?” She whispers the words in his ear, warm breath falling on his neck and he  _laughs._

It’s a pleasant sound but he chokes on the milkshake, causing her to erupt in laughter as she rubs his back to soothe the coughing. 

“I’m so sorry for intruding.” She teases as he leans back into her touch, the contact surprisingly welcome. 

He stops choking on his laughter, shaking his head—he’s been happier than in a long time when he catches a snippet of a whisper, something about a ‘metal arm’ and ‘a dangerous killer’ and then suddenly,  _it’s all gone._

He’s just deflated and maybe, it’s a lot more obvious then he thinks because suddenly, she’s getting up and setting three tens on the table and telling him that she’s got to get to work and he’s gotta find a better book—he’s more grateful than he lets on as she leads him out. 

She doesn’t pry and he doesn’t say anything but  _she_ knows because she chooses to walk on his left, adhering the view of the metal arm from anyone that would likely speak ill of it. 

She stays close, like she’s not afraid, like it’s still just Bucky. 

And he wants to ask if she knows that it’s still just  _him_ but he doesn’t ask and she doesn’t answer. 

But he still finds his answer in the way that her fingers brush against his. 

* * *

* * *

* * *

She’s warm. 

Pressed to his side in the elevator like they’re metal and magnet, with no choice but to be brought closer and closer and  _closer._

But it’s her choice to be close, to  _touch_ him and he’s—happy. 

He stiffens a little when she moves from his side to stand in front of him with something that looks like a concerned pout but he’s only half-paying attention because it feels like she’s looking  _through_ him rather than at him and for a moment, he wants to be vulnerable—he wants someone to lend their shoulder, he wants to talk,  _he wants help with carrying his world._

“How’re you feeling?”

“‘M okay. You don’t gotta baby me, sweetheart.” 

It’s a lie that he thinks falls seamlessly from his lips but she catches on and suddenly he’s not as invisible as he thinks because she’s fixing his collar like that’s what matters and it’s a small act, too small to mean anything to someone that didn’t feel like he was feeling but the touch, the  _touch_ that’s what means the most. 

“I’m not babying you. Just wanted to make sure you’d get home okay.”

He’d like to think he’s found his anchor so he smiles.

She continues to fix his collar, smoothing out imperfections that aren’t there, brushing away specks of dust that shouldn’t be visible against the light colored material of his shirt.

He’s not sure what prompts his next actions because he just relaxes and takes a deep inhale of her scent and—

He asks her to  _stay_. 

* * *

It’s three in the morning when he realizes that his lungs are filling with water and Bucky’s drowning and he can’t breath—can’t kick to the surface of the water that isn’t there and he’s then sitting up so fast that his head spins. 

He vaguely registers the outline of her back between the sheets but they feel too close, like they’re pulling at his limbs with fierce strength and he can’t pull away—it feels terribly familiar like the way a tongue runs along the little empty space where there’s supposed to be a tooth—except, he’s trying to forget that little empty space and he  _can’t._

He finds something in him that he never knew he had and he stumbles out of bed like just the thought of the pain is enough to get him numb enough that he can’t feel his legs, can’t control them—

And he sits. 

Near the window. Thoughts racing, skin sweaty and—desperate for something that he can’t quite name, can’t quite place. 

He just sits. For what seems like hours with tired eyes and inexplicable errors in his code. 

He sits. 

Bucky doesn’t know when she shifts out of bed, probably needing a glass of water or  _something_ but for once, he’s glad he’s wrong because the next thing he knows, she’s moving to his side, head dropping to his shoulder without thought, without hesitation—

She doesn’t say anything. She sits too. Reaches for his metal hand like it means nothing but really, it means _everything_ and her fingers entwine with his and her palm is warm and  _real_ against his own.

And he stays,  _maybe because he asked her to—j_ ust by his side, she stays, intending to help him shoulder the invisible weight he’s carrying, a weight that he refuses to stare.

He thinks that it’s strange— _they’re_ strange—but for now, he’ll just hold on. 


	33. 5 AM Whiskey Blues [Bucky Barnes]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a small bar but it's a home that the two of you have come to embrace.

There’s nothing quite like cheap chairs, cheap beer, cheap food and the wealth of too much strange shit that chooses to nestle itself in every nook of Stark’s. 

It’s one of those bars that’d you’d never expect to find yourself in, downing shot after shot whiskey, hopin’ maybe that it’ll be enough to help you sleep tonight after some fresh bullshit your boss pulled. 

It’s one of those bars where everything kinda looks like it hasn’t been sanitized, like your sober-self wouldn’t even dare think of touching the doorknobs for fear of catchin’ some sorta disease that they don’t even have a name for yet. It’s the kinda bar that your piss-drunk self would’ve like to spend their 21st birthday at instead of one of those fancy-ass restaurants that charges too much fuckin’ money for barely fillin’ a quarter of the plate that you’d agreed to go to only ‘cause you hadn’t been the one paying for it.

It’s one of those bars that’s got dim lights and advertisements for cold beer like it’s not  _now,_ but it’s still stuck in one of those stupidly catchy music videos from the eighties. 

It’s one of those bars those nine-to-fivers wouldn’t dare step in for the sake of staining their pristine suits but they’ll still come in for the sake of just one more drink, with crumpled fives clutched in their fists and a full day’s worth of worries that they wanna wash down with pints and more pints. 

And that,  _that’s_ constant, the lonely nostalgia of this place is a given, but it’s him, the new guy—

The new guy’s gonna be a problem. **  
**

Blue eyes, a dumbass smirk that’s too  _him_  to be innocent and a five fucking o’clock shadow that won’t quit—he’s gonna be a giant fucking pain in the ass.

See, you’ve worked your way up here—night school, too goddamn many bets lost—well, maybe it’s not exactly working your way up but it’s something. It’s late nights and lost bets and mid-morning hangovers but—

The new guy’s gonna be a problem.

* * *

Bucky figures he’s seen everything there is to see in this field, and he says that like this is a some branch of the military that just got de-funded in some perfect fucking type of a world—he figures that he’s seen everything. 

He’s seen public proposals that’d failed because well, they’d been too public, too much pressure to say ‘yes’. 

He’s seen girls and guys strip naked on drunken dares only to likely wake up the next day and regret everything through fresh recollections stemming from friends telling the story with hands over their mouths to muffle their laughter. 

He’s seen people try to defend their drunken ramblings with their fists and raise up chairs to bring down on someone else’s head like it’s their fucking house only for him to threaten to get the police involved enough though he damn well knows that with his record, that’s not a good fucking idea but he’s never had one fucking good idea in his life has he? 

He’s seen a lot, some would say too much but—

But  _her—_

He’s never quite seen something so fucking bright, so fucking dangerous that he’s so fucking sure that he should be cautious but really doesn’t give enough of a fuck to stay back, stay away. 

He’s never quite been so drawn to flame. 

And he thinks, momentarily that where he comes from—hell, anywhere he goes from now on—would consider him the epitome of a fool, too lost navigating the recesses of what ifs and why nots to  _think_ for just one moment about what the fuck he’s actually doing—

But he’s still gonna smile at her when she’s glaring at him from across the table like he’s there to steal something from her.

He’s still gonna smile at her when she accidentally overfills the shot-glass of vodka someone order and then swears like no one’s watchin’, no one’s listenin’.

He’s still gonna smile at her like he’s got a secret to keep and another to sell.  

Yeah, she’s gonna be a problem. 

* * *

There’s a look on his face, a smirk that’s all smug and  _just_ a little crooked and you’re staring shamelessly like there’s mud on his face, eyes trailing from his stoic blue eyes to his lips and then lower to his torso and to his  _arm._

_Shit._

His arm. 

“You ever hear that joke about the bartender with the prosthetic?” 

His voice sends a shiver up your spine like you’re stepping out of the ocean after a short dip to be subject immediately to a cool breeze that’s everyone’s first relief from the summer heat. 

“Would rather not.” Comes your immediate reply ‘cause all you know right now is that even talking to him is wading through dangerous waters, just countin’ on a riptide to drag you further out ‘till you’re struggling to breathe and you’ve barely got enough energy to kick to the surface only be dragged back down again. 

And plus, you  _weren’t_ staring. 

“Figured you’d be interested.” 

“Got a better taste in jokes than anything you could come up with, pretty boy.” 

Some part of you wants to retaliate for the nickname that you’ve settled on for him, another part dawns on the fact that you don’t quite  _know_ his name but it doesn’t matter because he’s laughing like you’ve told him the funniest joke that he’s ever heard—  

You like his laugh. 

‘Course, if anyone caught on, they’d get nothing more than a glare and something like an empty threat but right now, you’re just gonna work harder on cleaning the glass in your hand, purposely smudging what you’d already cleaned with your fingers. 

“So, tell me sweetheart, what kinda joke do you like? What  _exactly_  is the kinda joke you’re used to?” 

There’s a new way that he’s speaking to you, in some sort of a drawl that makes it seem like he’s intending on presenting a double entendre, holding your gaze that’s somehow find its way back to him like a moth drawn to flame—

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

* * *

It’s 5 the next morning when the bar’s empty and you can finally close. 

It takes time, stacking all the chairs on top of the tables, making real fuckin’ sure that the counter-tops are spotless even though they’ll still be sticky with some weird fuckin’ residue from god knows what but smelling so goddamn fresh like off-brand lemon scented cleaner. 

When you’re done, you decide to take the chance that’s been ready to hit you in the face for the past hour. 

The new guy’s still behind the counter, making sure that the drinks are in some stupid fuckin’ order that only he can decode and the glasses are as clean and clear as can be. 

You pull down one of the wooden chairs, drop on top of it like it’s not old and won’t creak when you sit down on it. You move to rest your elbows on the bar top, not caring that you’ve just tainted all the work he’s done to make it clean. 

He turns to face you at the sound of the chair, eyebrow raised either in confusion or amusement. 

“Alright, new guy. Hit me with your best.” 

And he just stares for a moment, like he’s trying to understand, to register your words in an order that makes just a semblance of sense—  

“Name’s James. But call me Bucky.” 

It’s a strange nickname but it tastes like smoke and promises and well, you’re not sure you don’t like the taste of it on your tongue. It’s a strange nickname but one that suits the way that he tucks his hair behind his ear, the way that his eyes shine even in the low light, the way that he’s got his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, top button left open—it’s a strange nickname but it’s one that suits him. 

“Alright, Bucky,” You say it like it’s something you don’t want to forget but with the way he’s looking over the top of the glass he’s drinking from, all warm and expectant, you’re not sure you would ever forget, “Show me what you got.” 

* * *

You’re not sure how he’s got you back to the same question he’s asked before— or at least, similar enough to the one he’s asked before.  

_What exactly are you used to?_

And maybe it’s the buzz of the alcohol pumping through your veins or the way that he’s leaning towards you over the counter with a dopey grin on his lips that’s too  _him_ to belong to anyone else. 

So this time, you reply like you’ve got everything and nothing to lose at the same time, you let him in through open windows and open doors, “I dunno. I guess it’s the city, ya know? All loud and bright, that’s—that’s home. Dunno how I got here.” 

There’s a brief moment of silence before his hand’s closing around your glass and he’s taking a sip from it—you don’t really care. 

“You ain’t gonna be so lonely out here, can make you that promise—if that’s what you’re lookin’ for. Pretty face like yours won’t have too much trouble makin’ friends.” 

He says it like he’s  _not_ the new one and he’s  _not_ the one who’s been in this town, this job for less than a week. He says it like he knows the town like the back of his hand and the people like the faded pictures he’d forgotten long ago in his attic. 

“And you,” You begin, flicking his hand away playfully like he’s someone you’ve known since forever before taking another sip of the drink he’d made you, “What happens when  _Bucky_  gets lonely?” 

“Sweet girl, wouldn’t you like to know?” 

He says it with a wink that makes you feel all hot and cold at the same time, eager to run, eager to do somethin’ that you know you’re gonna regret sooner or later. 

This,  _this,_ is definitely gonna be a problem. 

* * *

He’s flirting. 

Even from here you can see the way that he’s leaning forward with bad intentions and that stupid smirk of his and his voice all low and rough like he wants to whisper false promises that you want to hang on to until your arms give out—

He’s flirting and you’re not sure why you give so much of a damn. 

She’s pretty. All dolled up like she’s meant to be a beacon for someone with cherry red lips and a dress that’s clinging to her like a second skin. And people are  _staring,_ salivating like hungry wolves but her? Her attention’s on the new guy like 

You’re close enough so that you can hear the tone of his voice, rough like the gravel that lines the road leadin’ into the small parking lot out back; the pleasant kind, the kind that makes you feel like there’s flames lickin’ at your skin when it’s pitched low, whispering dirty,  _dirty_ things in your ear— _fuck,_ you can’t be thinkin’ shit like that. 

But then he’s flinging his rag over his shoulder before turnin’ around for shit on the top-shelf and under the counter for a glass and he’s  _laughing_ like the woman’s just told him some fuckin’ stupid joke and he’s going ‘tell me about it’ like he understands the trouble behind all the drama that’s goin’ on between her friends. 

And then she’s laughing too, all warm and soft like a butterfly’s fucking kiss and there’s a fire that’s low in your stomach when you set down the bottle of vodka you’d been gripping to like a life-line with a clink that should be lost in the beat of the music that’s playing but  _somehow_ the asshole hears it. 

Because he looks up and smiles your way, all slow and wide like he’s just won something. 

And you know, that’s it’s just a part of the job, a plot to get more tips and maybe a good lay once in a while—

But it still makes your eyes narrow and jaw clench at the low fire in your stomach. 

* * *

Maybe, he knows. 

But he’s actin’ all cocky and like a piece of shit that you wanna smack, you’re  _sure_ that he knows somethin’ that you don’t. 

He still stands behind the counter after the bar’s closed, taking your order and messing it up or replacing it with something stronger just ‘cause he thinks you need it in the most respectful way possible. 

He doesn’t bring it up though, if he’d noticed the way that’d you’d looked at him when he was being all suave and shit with the girl and he definitely had. 

You, on the other hand, haven’t got the time or the patience for beatin’ around the bush when there’s questions clawing at your skin like thorn bushes you’d accidentally wandered into.

“You still got time for us when you got yourself a pretty woman waiting?” 

There’s a edge to your voice, a calm sorta fury even though he ain’t yours but  like you’d be willing to open the door for him if he wanted to walk out. 

There’s a smirk pulling at his lips, like his suspicions were just confirmed and now he’s a fucking king just because he was right  _once._

“Who says I kept ‘er number?” 

It catches you off guard, his answer, his tone ‘cause he’s speaking like he doesn’t give a damn that she’d been throwing herself at him, hoping for a good lay, maybe somethin’ more. 

“That’s shitty, Bucky, real fuckin’ shitty.” You say it tryin’ to fight back a smile.

“It’s the job. ‘Sides, I got my eye on someone else.”

You laugh or at least try to because he’s looking at you with  _something_ glinting in his eye that’s not that playful shit he pulls with all the patrons—it’s raw and it’s challenging like he  _wants_ something. 

You sit frozen, hungry eyes flickering to the curve of his lips, following the way that his tongue peeks out of his mouth, all innocent and  _sweet—_

And before you can say anything, he’s leaning over the counter and he’s kissing you all deep and slow, asking you if ‘you’re comin’’ somewhere you don’t know how to respond, don’t know  _if_ you can respond because it’s hungry and it’s deep and he’s gotta break the kiss to come over to your side. 

“You okay with this, sweetheart?” His voice is rushed like he’s gotta go somewhere and he’s late already but his hands are gentle on your waist and his eyes are still glinting with the promise of debauchery. 

“Ye— _yeah.”_

He’s kissing you again and you’re lost in the sensation of his rough lips that taste vaguely like tequila and you  _hate_ tequila but it’s not so bad right now, not so bad this way. 

* * *

You’re reminded constantly of the fact that it’s a small bar. 

Men and women walk in like they’re conquerors out to get their piece of land, angry and stompin’ into the entrance with troubles rolling off them in waves of sweat as the old air conditioner struggles to keep up with the body heat. 

He keeps bumpin’ into you. But that’s not what keeps your attention.

There’s been an influx of suit-clad businessmen that look too goddamn rich, too goddamn polished to be hangin’ around here. But you still serve ‘em because that’s your job, and that’s just what you’re supposed to do. 

However, there’s a lingering sense of curiosity when there’s two, maybe three of them at the bar and they’re talking about how the wall plasters peeling and the color’s faded—and suddenly, you’re a little defensive of the whole thing, you’re puttin’ less ice in the glasses, making sure the liquor flows just a little bit slower but they don’t notice because now, they’re onto the dim lighting and how those bulbs at the entrance flicker a little too often even when there isn’t a storm outside.

All this, all the flickering lights and peeling paint and the shitty air conditioner and the  _simpleness_ of the bar—it’s home. It’s a home away from home and it’s a home in a place that you’ve never have expected to find solace. 

And now, there’re these people comin’ in like they wanna build nests and change everything around—

You wonder, vaguely, if Bucky feels the same sorta pressure low in his chest that there’s gonna be an actual storm soon and the lights at the entrance are actually gonna flicker out for good. 

* * *

Mr. Stark’s got this kind of swagger that makes you wanna tilt your head down and stand frozen in fear till he actually talks to you—he carries that with him like his very skin, but then he’ll open his mouth and suddenly you’re at the center of attention and he’s talkin’ to you like you’re both old friends. 

That’s the thing about Mr. Stark that you’d come admire the most. Sure, he’s been up and down and lower than low and now he’s wearing Armani and designer leather shoes that you don’t know the name of but he’s not the kind of person to talk down at you. 

So, when he walks in that night wearing jeans and an old band shirt, with tired eyes, carryin’ the world like he’s Atlas and you serve him as you would anyone else, setting down one drink and then two before him as he chugs them down—you don’t know that this is the man who owns this place, who owns the peeling paint and the old vinyl floors. 

It’s a short conversation that you have with him, something about how life always brings you back to this one place that it’s gonna take you a while to get out of. 

Yeah, he’s right, you decide, life’s a cycle of bullshit with some reprieve here and there to keep you comin’ back for another hit, hopin’ that it’ll get better at some point only for it to bite you in the ass again.  _He’s right._

But when he stays well after the bar’s supposed to be closed, he’s no longer a supposed patron but suddenly, he’s  _Mr. Stark, ‘_ cause all the staff’s greeting him with a smile and he’s giving them one in return too but it’s one that’s strained, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, one that’s all business-like and nothing more where there should be emotion. 

He’s Mr. Stark but he seems like a shadow of what you’d expected when he announces that the bar’s being bought out. 

He’s right. 

* * *

Maybe people have heard, or maybe they haven’t but the bar’s more crowded than usual for a late Thursday night. 

Bucky and you have gravitated towards each other like there’s a tense string connecting you two, like you’re finally realizing that this is the last time you’ll be doing  _this_ between these four walls, serving these familiar faces. 

You ask him the one question that’s been rattling around your head like a lost coin fallin’ into a gutter. 

“What’re you gonna do after,” You set down a glass, pouring a line of shots for someone’s face that blurs with unshed tears in your eyes, “You know, after this?” You ask, blinking them away as if they don’t mean shit and it doesn’t make your throat tighter not to just let it all go. 

And from the tone of his voice, you don’t know if he’s been here long enough to miss it, you don’t know if he even cares but for some reason, his words imprint on your skin like a finality that leaves you scrambling for purchase on slippery surfaces. 

But then he’s being pulled away by someone waving him over and ordering somethin’ crazy but he’s making it with a smile on his lips and holding a conversation like all of this is just bouncing off his skin like rain on a window, like none of this  _matters,_ like he’s not thinking about your question. 

When he finds his way back to you, his answer is simple. 

“I don’t know.” 

And it’s almost like a slap to the face because even in the short time you’ve known him, he’s  _Bucky_ and he’s confident and he seems like the kinda guy to know how to play his cards so that he can move on without more scars than he’s already got. 

But this Bucky sounds lost, scared even of what’s to come. 

This Bucky isn’t the guy you’ve come to depend on for some kinda reassurance that there’s gonna be another time that you’ll drink together and he’ll stand behind the counter after the bar’s closed and mess up the drink you ordered on purpose just for you to call him the ‘new guy’ again. 

This is the Bucky that  _doesn’t_ know. Maybe, that scares you a little more than it should.

* * *

 

It’s the last time the bar’s gonna close and the chairs are stacked in the corner of the room that a rowdy group of light-weights would often frequent, starting fights about stupid shit nobody else but maybe three people in the group gave half a damn about. 

And Bucky—

Bucky’s standing behind the counter like he always does, gripping the edge and looking towards the entrance like he’s expecting a regular to walk through even though the sign outside already says ‘closed’. 

Then, he inhales deeply, shoulders tense like he’s gonna say something but he doesn’t but that’s when you decide to break the spell of the vinyl he’s got playing. 

“You know that’s one of Stark’s best bottles. He’s gonna beat your ass if  he finds out.” As far as you know, the two of you have drunk, have shared drinks before but haven’t ever been bold enough to open a fresh bottle—it’s new. And you’re sure Mr. Stark doesn’t care about one missing bottle of whiskey. 

“Don’t care.” There’s a pause, a silence that seems to stretch for longer than it actually lasts before his lips part and he’s offering you something.

“Join me up here.” He says it like he’s asking you to join him on an adventure but the way he’s looking at you, all innocent and curious like he wants to ask a million questions but is gonna stay silent for the sake of privacy—you’re not sure you’ve got it in yourself to say no. 

“You gotta start caring about something sometime, Buck.” 

And he shrugs, all easy and carefree, as if he’s not carrying the entire world on his shoulders and as if he doesn’t care that he doesn’t know where to go from here, where to place his cards so the entire tower doesn’t come crumbling down. 

He looks at you, takes a sip from the bottle before holding it out to you, “Maybe I already do care.” 

You’ve got nothing on the tip of your tongue to reply with. So, you stutter out something noncommittal, just to fill the silence but he doesn’t care because it’s still an answer, and it’s still something to hold on to—

“Alright, that’s—that’s good. I’ll take it.” 

And he nods, takes the bottle from you again and it’s silent again save for the unnamed tunes drifting through the sticky air, settling over your skin like a blanket you’re gonna kick off anyway. 

The two of you sit on the counter like it’s the top of the world, like two puzzle pieces not meant to fit, smiles on your lips that stretch slow as if there’s been a stupidly cheesy joke that’s been shared in muffled whispers. The bottle of whiskey sits between you, half-empty, waiting for the contact of lips once more.

When you reach for it, he does too. You stay, hands close, almost as an offer of something akin to comfort. 

And you think, vaguely, with watery senses and the taste of something heavy on your lips that’s not alcohol—

This,  _this_ is something just a little more hopeful than the end. 

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts? comments?


End file.
